


An Author's Privilege

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An award-winning author is murdered. Holmes & Watson investigate, and open up their own tricky can of worms. H&W established relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The October of 1886 brought with it a persistent blustering wind, grey overcast skies and heavy rain. It also brought a new mystery for my friend, Sherlock Holmes, for which he was exceedingly grateful. Holmes’s caseload had increased significantly over the Summer months, and so the arrival of a quieter two week spell, although restful for us both, soon had him twitching with impatience and a desire for some fresh challenge or stimulation. It would come by way of Inspector Lestrade, and would ultimately lead to an intriguing, often difficult and disturbing, period of time for all of us. The few days prior to the Inspector’s visit, however, found my friend champing at the bit.

“Holmes,” I said, looking up wearily from my half-finished breakfast, “I wish you would either sit down, lie down or go back to bed, because this incessant nervous pacing up and down of yours is giving me an indigestion.”

He stopped and looked at me then, leaning with both hands upon the back of the sofa, frustration writ upon his face.

“I have endured a fortnight of all three options that you list, Watson, and I can tell you now that I am quite ready to move onto the fourth option, which is ‘ _work_ ’. If only there was some of it to be going on with in the first place. Perhaps all the criminals of London have been blown away on this abysmal wind like dandelion puffs, who can say.”

“That is debatable, Holmes. And I am a little unhappy at your statement of having merely endured the past two weeks here at home, when I thought that we had spent it very pleasantly doing as we pleased.” I pointed a hurt look in his direction before turning my attention back to my eggs. “Are you going to eat any breakfast at all?”

Holmes came and sat across from me at the table. He brushed my hand gently with his fingertips by way of apology. “I did not mean it like that, my boy,” said he, “you know how I am.” He picked up the coffee pot and poured two fresh cups. “The time that we have together between cases is very precious to me, for there is scarcely enough of it when we are at work. When my mind is idle, however…” And he tapped briefly at his crown before spiralling his fingers into the air.

“Yes, I know how it can be,” I said softly. The morocco case with its hypodermic syringe had lain undisturbed within his bedside cabinet for some considerable time now, and yet I knew how well the dark temptation was able to relentlessly pull and tighten its hold when my friend was under one of his sporadic lethargies.

“Eat,” I told him now, and pushed the dish of bacon and eggs in his direction. He smiled and shook his head.

“Not yet. I may take lunch if I feel like it.” Then, leaning back in his chair, and apropos of nothing: “Does Mrs. Hudson know, do you think, Watson?”

“Does Mrs. Hudson know that you do not care for breakfast?” I raised my eyebrows. “Yes, I think it is likely that she has come to that conclusion by now, my dear fellow.”

“No,” Holmes chuckled, “I mean, do you think that she knows about _us_? The woman is as unreadable as one of my old palimpsests. Try as I might, I am unable to make up my mind one way or another on the matter. She cannot be as stone deaf or blind as we might wish to believe.”

I blinked and cleared my throat uncomfortably. “I would hope that she _is_ , Holmes. She does not treat us any differently that I have noticed. I should like to imagine that it would not matter one whit to her either way. She must have noticed that your room is very little used now, however, as you are most often up with me.”

“Yes,” Holmes mused, “that is true enough. We should be more discreet on that front, I think, as we were at the beginning. We have become rather lax about it, and there will always be a risk, I am afraid.”

“Although my favourite part of the morning is waking up with you by my side,” I smiled softly. “I am loath to give it up. But I do understand, Holmes.”

He rose and leaned across to me, and kissed my forehead. “It is mine too, believe me,” said he. “And creeping down a dark, narrow staircase back to my own cold bed at five o’clock of a morning is not my idea of a good time. Yet if we were surprised by Mrs. Hudson announcing an unexpected early morning caller, let us say, then things could become very awkward for us - the more so if it was Lestrade or one of his team.” He shuddered briefly, then abruptly cast away the thought and touched my shoulder. “Sarasate is playing at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon. Will you come?”

“I should love to, Holmes,” I replied, “how on earth did you manage to get tickets? They are like gold dust.”

“I have my methods,” said he, with a smile. “It is set, then. We have something to look forward to. Excellent!” And he sat back down in his chair, and hummed to himself the while as I finished my breakfast.

After the dishes had been cleared away and Holmes and I were left to our own devices once more, he turned and tossed across to me a silver cigarette case.

“Tell me what you make of that, Watson,” said he, standing over by the window and looking back at me.

“It was left here by a client, or a friend?” I asked him. He shrugged non-committally. I examined the small flat case. The unengraved silver was highly polished and carried no scratches. Upon opening the case I found a small number of unevenly hand-rolled cigarettes, quite loose and spilling their tobacco. The fastening which kept them secured was frayed and worn. I looked up at Holmes, unsure as to what I was supposed to deduce from such little information.

“It is a gentleman’s cigarette case,” I began, hesitantly. Holmes rolled his eyes and motioned that I continue. “Um. The outer shell is polished and cared for, so it would be kept in an inside top pocket, not in a trouser pocket where sharp objects might scratch it. The owner is not very adept at rolling cigarettes. Er. It is not a new case, as the fastening is well used.” I placed the case on the table. “That is all I can tell from it, Holmes. To whom does it belong?”

“On the contrary, the case itself is quite new.” Holmes picked it up and displayed it again before me. “This design was released only in the Spring. Well kept, all the same, until you observe the shocking state of the fastening, as you stated. A gentleman of nervous habit then, a heavy smoker, an anxious and impatient one, who watches his pennies and would rather roll his own cigarettes than purchase the ready-made variety, and is shockingly bad at the practice of doing so.” Holmes chuckled. “The case belongs to our dear Inspector Lestrade, Watson. He left it here on his last visit, and I have only just unearthed it from our sofa cushions. He must be sorely missing it by now, and quite evidently is not so very talented at deduction otherwise he would have surely retraced his footsteps back to us for it.”

I laughed. “While you were describing the owner I could not help but think that it sounded somewhat similar to Lestrade. Well, then, we had better let him know of its safe reappearance before he spends some of his precious money on a new case.”

“Tomorrow,” said Holmes. “There is no hurry for that. We have a more pressing engagement, my dear fellow. Music! St. James’s Hall! So shine your shoes and brush down your jacket now. Yes, I know, we have a few hours yet, but it is as well to be prepared!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sarasate played magnificently, of course, and my friend was in a rapture for the remainder of the day. The great violinist stood at the front of the stage with a full orchestra behind him, his Stradivarius held almost as a weapon, and he produced from it the most glorious succession of pieces, his own compositions, which stunned and delighted the vast audience at St. James’s. The music soared, sang, and thrilled us both, and when we ricocheted out onto the street again some several hours later, it was to rhapsodise over what we had just heard.

“Ah, Watson, we may never experience the like of that again,” said Holmes, his eyes still half closed in pleasure, as he took my arm and walked away with me from the Hall. “Sarasate was truly at his peak this afternoon, as close to musical perfection as it is possible to reach.” And he gently waved his free hand before him, conducting almost, and rubbed his fingers together as though the air around him was a material that he could feel. “It was exquisite.”

“Yes, it was exquisite,” I agreed, happy to see my friend so moved. “It was one of the finest concerts that I have attended in a very long while.”

“Finer than Norman-Neruda?” Holmes asked me with a sideways smile.

“I would say so, I think,” I replied, squeezing his arm. “You are able to remember the intricacies of the music so much better than I. I expect you will want to play your violin when we get back to Baker Street?”

“I should like to,” said Holmes, observing me carefully, “if you would not object? If it would not be too much for you in one day? I should like to practice and go over a little of what we heard Sarasate play, if I am able.”

“I have no objection,” said I, “if it pleases you to do so.”

“I will try not to be interminable about it,” said he, with a chuckle.

“And then dinner at Goldini’s later on?” I suggested, pushing my luck now, perhaps. To my surprise and delight, Holmes nodded. “A perfect end to a wonderful day, then,” I said. “Which need not end there,” I added, slyly, after a moment.

“You are the very devil, Watson,” said Holmes, quickening his pace somewhat. “The very devil.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was as well that Holmes and I adhered to our commitment of discretion, for the next morning at barely 8 o’clock there was a knocking at the front door and Inspector Lestrade, his uniform dishevelled and thrown together, was admitted to our rooms. I had just made it downstairs, and Holmes was only now emerging from his chamber in his purple dressing gown, yawning and smoothing back his ruff of morning hair. He held up a stern hand for momentary respite while he filled and lit his black clay pipe, then he turned to the Inspector and regarded him through a wreath of thick smoke.

“Good morning, Lestrade,” said he, keen in spite of the early hour, for it was hardly likely that our friend should pay us a visit at this time if the matter was not of some importance. “How are things with you at the Yard? And how is it that you are with us at the crack of dawn today rather than at your own home, more sensibly digesting your breakfast?”

“Well, hardly the crack of dawn, Mr. Holmes,” replied Lestrade, “hardly that. But it is murder! It is murder which brings me here! And I should like for both of you to come with me immediately and take a look at the scene, because it is all very odd.”

Holmes perked. “Odd, you say? What are the details?”

Lestrade enjoyed these moments, I could tell, when he was able to take control however fleetingly, and tantalise Holmes with the information he craved, thread by tiny thread. He sat back in his chair, tucked his thumbs into either side of his waistcoat, drummed his thick fingers upon his chest and smiled conspiratorially at us.

“Ah, it is something up your alley, Mr. Holmes. Literally. Ha! A bachelor gentleman by the name of Oswald Carter was found dead early this morning, in the passageway that runs behind Barnes’ bookstore on Glenworth Street. You know the place? Yes, very good. He was lying half-in, half-out of one of the back alcoves, his head caved in from some blunt and heavy object. A nasty, bloody business, Mr. Holmes. Here’s a funny thing, too: he was wearing carpet slippers when we found him. What do you think of that?”

“Has the weapon been retrieved?” asked Holmes.

Lestrade shook his head. “I am afraid not.”

“Is there much blood around the body?”

“There is not. A small amount only.”

“Hmm. The name Oswald Carter is vaguely familiar to me, although I cannot think from where. Watson, my dear fellow, would you pass to me Volume C of my Index? Thank you. Now. Carter. Hum. Canning… Carruthers… Carter, Oswald, here we are! A journalist at the Daily Echo, responsible for various lurid articles… no criminal record that I can see. Is that quite correct, Lestrade?”

“Almost,” replied the Inspector. “Your index could do with a little updating, Mr. Holmes. Prior to his demise Carter was no longer a journalist, in fact, he had turned fully-fledged author. He had had several books published, the most recent of which winning an award of one kind or another.”

“That is very likely how I recognise the name. Now then, Lestrade, if you would be so kind as to allow me the opportunity to dress and comb back my hair so that I may resemble less of a scarecrow, I shall be with you at the scene within 30 minutes. Oh, and by the way, you left this behind on your last visit here.” And Holmes waved the silver cigarette case in front of the Inspector’s nose. “It came to light only yesterday. Your atrociously rolled cigarettes are quite intact, do not fear.”

Lestrade took the proffered case with an exclamation of pleasure. “Ah! I was thinking that this had been lost for good; I am very happy it has been found. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. How on earth did you know that it belonged to me?”

“I deduced it,” replied Holmes, with a wry smile. “I do that on occasion, you know.”

When Lestrade had departed, and was safely out of the front door and into Baker Street, Holmes swept across the room and embraced me briefly. “A narrow escape,” said he, with a wiggle of his eyebrows, then: “Ten minutes, Watson, and I shall be with you. Call down to Mrs. Hudson for a fresh pot of tea but we must breakfast later, as there is no time to waste.”

Half an hour later, we were in the alley behind Barnes’s bookstore and Holmes was in deep conversation with Lestrade once again. He broke away and approached the body, which remained in its fatal slump inside the alcove, and knelt down to closer examine the surrounds. He removed his magnifier from his pocket and regarded the head wound with much interest. Something barely visible attached to the wall by the body attracted his particular attention, and he removed it carefully with a pair of tweezers before placing the fragment into a piece of tissue and into his pocket. Stepping back, Holmes crouched and followed the path of the alleyway a distance in both directions, judiciously scrutinising the ground at close quarters each step of the way. He appeared to find nothing on that front, however, for he rose and returned to us with a look of disappointment upon his face.

“The alley is quite devoid of any useful evidence,” said he, “although I did find something in that alcove, Lestrade. Have your men been there already?”

“What did you find, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade, frowning. “We saw nothing.”

“Well, naturally,” my friend replied. He produced the tissue paper and unfolded it, revealing a few strands of hair. “This was caught upon a nail in the wall, at approximately waist height. There is still a tuft left for you to pick up if you deem it worthwhile, Lestrade.”

“Red hair? Mr. Carter has black hair. But those strands might have been there for weeks, or months, Mr. Holmes, it is doubtful evidence, surely?”

Holmes sighed and replaced the tissue into his coat pocket. “Possibly, and yet worth following up on, all the same, no? I shall, at any rate. You must do as you see fit. The lack of blood in the vicinity and the nature of the footwear is proof enough that Carter was murdered elsewhere and the body brought here and disposed of. But why here, in particular? The alleyway is long, and we are halfway along it already. The alcoves would conceal anything very well - the murderer could more easily have left the body closer to the main street with lesser risk of being seen carrying a heavy load. Unless he emerged from one of the back doors in this area. That is equally possible. Here we are in Barnes’ rear alcove, which is in itself worth noting, but that does not necessarily mean that the body came from this building. Have you spoken with Barnes, Lestrade?”

“I have, and he is beside himself in an anxiety, and claims that he knows nothing of the business. I will interview him fully later today when he has calmed down from his hysteria. And we shall be enquiring with the owners of all the properties along this stretch, Mr. Holmes, do not fear about that,” said Lestrade. “We will keep you informed. Did you find anything further of interest?”

“Yes,” Holmes replied. “The head wound itself is unusually shaped. The weapon was not a straightforward club or stick, but something more uncommon. What do you make of it, Watson? Take a look, now, and provide us with your expert opinion.”

I dropped to my haunches beside the body and examined the wound. There were a series of small indentations in a measured pattern to the back of the victim’s head. The skull had been partway crushed by the force of the bludgeoning, but to one side of the indents there was a long laceration from something sharp, yet unserrated. A fatal blow indeed. I looked over the body in its entirety, and then stood up, shaking my head.

“A very unusual cudgel caused this man’s death,” I said. “The patterning is quite precise, therefore the instrument was likely not of the roughshod homemade variety. There is a laceration adjacent to the indents which appears to be connected, rather than being a separate wound from a further strike.”

“A military mace, then?”

“It is possible, but it is certainly unusually shaped, almost that of a square rather than a round headed object.”

“Are you able to estimate the time of death, Doctor?” asked Lestrade.

“It is difficult to tell with any precision because of the natural elements to which the body has been exposed, but bearing that in mind I would estimate nine hours ago - midnight.”

Holmes turned around to the Inspector. “Lestrade, tell me, did Carter live alone? I should like to visit his property, if convenient.”

“He did indeed, Mr. Holmes, quite locally, and I shall arrange access for you later today. Do you have everything you need from here now?”

“Thank you, yes,” my friend replied, and after a few moments more we took our leave.

“You do not believe that the crime was committed at one of the adjacent buildings, Holmes?” I asked, as we made our way back towards Baker Street.

“Carter was wearing carpet slippers, Watson, so rather more likely he had been at home. Unless, of course, the slippers were placed there _after_ the fact, which we cannot dismiss until we have examined his rooms - hopefully this afternoon, if Lestrade acts efficiently for once in his life.”

“After the fact?”

“It is a possibility, to throw us off the scent. They were the correct size carpet slippers, though, and well worn, which leads me to think they were Carter’s own, but still. We can eliminate nothing at this early stage. I expect you will be wanting breakfast now, Watson?”

“Do you not wish to speak with Barnes, Holmes?”

“Later, later. According to Lestrade, Barnes is incapacitated and won’t be of much use to us yet.”

I glanced across to Holmes as we entered our sitting-room a minute later, and saw that his eyes were glistening, his face flushed with eagerness for the work about to begin. I foresaw a chain of sleepless nights and long days ahead of us, lest I might somehow endeavour to find a way of stalling the potentially destructive pattern. Holmes was only too content to grind himself down into the ground if I was not there to keep a watchful eye and care for his wellbeing.

“Do you think we might return to our bed for an hour?” I suggested, wrapping an arm around my friend’s waist and catching him from his manoeuvre towards the fireplace. I nuzzled insistently at his neck, kissing his jaw line, and he twisted around slowly to take my chin between his index finger and thumb.

“What do you have in mind?” he asked, “This is perhaps not the best time to be rolling around kicking up a row if we are to be expecting one or other of the Scotland Yarders to pay us a visit with information on Carter. John, really, there is a time and a place for everything, and I think that this is not - ah!”

I had bitten his neck. “Be quiet,” said I, “you always make such an infernal fuss. I want to make the most of the time that we have left now, before this case whisks you away from me and the unfortunate Mr. Carter is all you can think about for the next week. Just ten minutes, then - your room, clothed, sitting-room door locked for privacy. Yes?”

“Yes, then,” he chuckled, “although when you said that you were hungry for breakfast I had no idea that I was intended as the main course - ah! John, _stop_ that…”

I cannot, though. He knows full well just what it does to me when he calls me by my first name.


	3. Chapter 3

We sprawled side by side upon Holmes’s narrow bed, clothed for the most part and breathless for the remainder. Eight minutes. I wondered how best we might spend the remaining two minutes while we were both of us empty and smiling like fools.

“Your hair is a mess,” I told my friend, helpfully.

He swatted at me ineffectually. “So is yours. And tuck yourself back in, in the name of decency.”

I laughed. “We still have two minutes.”

Holmes huffed, his shoulders shaking in amusement. “Ah, that we might still be 18 and able to go another round so soon. But alas.”

“I am obsessed with your body; it is the most terrible affliction,” I confessed, flinging one arm back across my chest. “I cannot get enough of you. I almost wish that we _were_ 18\. There are not letters enough in the alphabet for everything that I want to do to you, still.”

Holmes sat up, his eyes twinkling, his cheeks high-spotted and red. “Only eight minutes, and hear how your tongue loosens! Come on now, John, up, and arrange yourself.” He patted my thigh. “We must return to the sitting-room, for Lestrade will surely be with us again before too long and you _still_ have not had breakfast.”

Back in our main quarters, Holmes called down to Mrs. Hudson, and I stood by the window to light a cigarette and look down for any likely Scotland Yard uniform which might bring us news. As I gazed into the street my eye caught a glimpse of a very familiar scrag of flaxen hair, and I groaned inwardly. I turned around to my friend.

“Gregson is on his way,” I said.

Holmes gave a moue of displeasure. He had never admitted what transpired with Gregson during the Catherine Dunphy case some five months earlier, but I had noticed that their occasional dialogues from that point forwards had been decidedly frosty.

“Lock the door and ask that he deposit the information we require on a slip of paper slid underneath,” said Holmes.

“Holmes, I cannot do that, I sincerely hope that you are jo- Oh, good morning, Gregson.”

Inspector Gregson now stood at the entrance to the sitting-room. He nodded solemnly to me and flashed a scowl at Holmes, who was unfazed.

“Gregson,” said he, “how good of you to pay us a call. I trust that you are not too winded by all of those steps of ours? They must be very trying for anyone not at their peak level of fitness.”

Gregson glowered at us in turn now, as though we were conspiring to poke fun at him. “Yes, well,” said he, “I can see that the both of you have had your ‘morning exercise’ already, so I must bow in deference to that.” Satisfied with his jibe, he pulled a paper from his pocket. “Would you care for the address of Mr. Oswald Carter, or not?”

Holmes nodded, stepped forward and took the scrap of paper from the Inspector’s fingers. “Thank you,” he said, and took a step back. “19C Morecambe Road,” he read. “When would it be convenient for us to call there, Gregson?”

“Let us say after midday,” replied the Inspector, “just to give our lads time to make the first inspection. I have not been there myself yet, so have no additional detail to give you. I shall be on my way now, at any rate. Good morning, then.” And turning on his heel, he left us.

“‘Morning exercise’ indeed,” I exclaimed. “The nerve of the man. He should know better than that.”

“He aims his barbs where he can,” Holmes shrugged. “We have Carter’s address now, all the same. Perhaps after our visit there we can call on friend Barnes and see how he is faring. That ought to occupy our afternoon quite nicely, Watson. But now I must attend to this red hair and see what it can reveal.”

Holmes crossed to his chemistry table and began tinkering with his Bunsen and various chemicals. Not to be outdone, I sat down at the breakfast table and tinkered with my ham and eggs. After a few minutes of distracting hissing and fizzing from Holmes’s corner, he arose from his chair with a soft exclamation of discovery.

“The red hair has a debris attached that is commonly used in wigs,” he informed me. “It is relatively clean, so I think it unlikely to have been snagged upon that nail in the wall for very long. I believe we have found our first evidence, Watson - as opaque as that might be to us at present. When you have finished your breakfast, would you mind researching for me the volumes that Mr. Carter had published in his career as author? The titles and year of publishing will suffice. Thank you, my boy.”

I departed for the library within a short while. Upon my return an hour later I found Holmes curled up in his chair by the fire, his knees drawn up to his chin and his eyes closed in deep thought. He roused when I stroked his head, smiling up at me languidly.

“I have the data you asked for, Holmes,” I said. “Carter published only two novels: the first was ‘Dark Dreams’ in ‘84 with Falcon Press; the second was ‘The Broken Bracelet’ which was published in ‘85 by Truman House.”

“I am familiar with neither,” said Holmes. “The titles do not sound particularly enticing. I suppose we might enquire with Barnes if he has them in stock when we speak with him - or we might be able to acquire copies from Carter’s own bookshelf, if he retained any. It would be as well to cast an eye over them for case research.”

“The latter won the Pitfield Prize for Literature at the beginning of this year, Holmes. Might that have been where you heard of the author’s name?”

“I do not recall,” he replied. “It is either that, or I read one of Carter’s newspaper articles several years ago and retained the name for whatever reason. I could search back through our old newspapers in the lumber-room, but there seems to be little point at present. Come, then, let us head for Morecambe Road and pray that we do not encounter Gregson twice in one day. There are limits to my endurance.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

19C was a ground floor set of rooms inside a shabby redbrick fronting onto a long stretch of grey road. One lone police officer stood outside on the front path, and he nodded to us as we approached him.

“Spencer, good afternoon,” said Holmes, “will it be all right if we take a look around now?”

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, it is good to see you,” the constable replied. “Yes, the rooms are open, go straight ahead, you should not be disturbed.”

We entered the building and found the door to 19C a few steps inside the hallway. The rooms were small and well kept, but plainly furnished. Holmes commenced his inspection, moving quietly from room to room, kneeling to examine the carpets and the floorboards, peering beneath the tables, chairs and the lone single bed, paying a careful attention to the cabinets and shelving in the sitting-room. He scribbled occasionally in his notebook, and hummed to himself as he circuited. He stopped by the bookshelves at last and scanned the titles, eventually plucking one volume from a middle shelf.

“‘The Broken Bracelet’,” he said, pleased. “I will borrow it. No sign of the other, however. Have you observed the singular lack of carpeting in this room, by the way, Watson?”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I do indeed,” I replied. “That is most odd for an inhabited sitting-room of this kind, as the boarding is quite stained in areas. One would expect a rug at the very least.”

Holmes trod the boards and knelt at one spot. He brushed his fingers across an area, sniffed, examined it closely with his magnifying lens. Then he stood, and turned to me.

“Are you ready, Watson? I have all the information I require here for the moment.”

“What information is that, Holmes?” I asked, blinking around me, for I was certain that I could see very little.

“Information pertinent to Mr. Carter’s footwear, his shelving and his floorboards,” replied Holmes enigmatically, adding nothing further as he swept out of the room and beckoned for me to follow him.

Outside once more, Holmes looked about cursorily. “Paving stones only, no soil or gravel which might have told us more, that is a pity. Let us visit Barnes, then.”

We made the short journey to Glenworth Street and entered the bookshop. Little had changed since our last visit; it was the equivalent of visiting Bedlam itself, with its jungled frenzy of disorder. The thin rays of light shining through the grimy windows revealed a million dust particles scudding in lazy formation. Barnes poked his grizzled white head up from behind one of the middle shelves, and trotted hurriedly towards us.

“Oh Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson!” he wheezed, “Have you heard the news? Yes! It is so very terrible, and I am so very upset about it all. Dear me. I cannot comprehend it. My nerves are in pieces. I was in half a mind not to open up shop at all today.”

“There, there, Mr. Barnes,” said Holmes, “do not upset yourself. Take a seat here, please, and tell us everything that you know about it. We are engaged upon the case, and your assistance will be invaluable.”

Barnes sat himself down upon the rickety stool placed beside his glass counter, wrung his hands and haltingly began his recount of his morning’s discovery. He had awoken early, at 5 o’clock, as was his habit, and descended into the main shop area shortly thereafter to ensure that all was in order. He had then unlocked the back door of his premises - and yes, Mr. Holmes, the back door had most certainly been secure and locked that morning - in order to take some air and smoke a pipe. Whereupon he had been greeted with the most hideous sight of a deceased gentleman laying upon his front, with the back of his head bludgeoned in. Barnes had run straight to the police station to report his find.

“Did you happen to hear any strange noises in the night, Barnes?” asked Holmes.

“No, I heard nothing, Mr. Holmes,” the old man replied, “for I am a heavy sleeper.”

“Do you, or have you ever employed anyone who wears a red wig?”

“What a strange question, Mr. Holmes! No, I have no staff, I run my shop alone; it is only myself, indeed, and as you can see, my hair is white, not red.”

“Thank you, yes, I see that. One last thing, Barnes. Would you happen to have a copy of a novel by a Mr. Oswald Carter, entitled ‘Dark Dreams’? It was published two years ago by Falcon Press.”

Barnes cast a startled glance at my friend, and raised his bushy eyebrows.

“Of all the books I have in my bookstore, I am familiar with that one well enough,” said he. “I keep volumes such as this secure behind my counter, see, so I have a tendency to pay closer attention when they come into stock.”

Holmes blinked. “Why should you keep it secure, is it of a particular value?”

Barnes grimaced. “To them as likes to read it, then yes, I should say so, Mr. Holmes.” He rose up from his stool and fished in his waistcoat pocket for a key, with which he unlocked a low cabinet behind his glass-top. From within he scrabbled around for a moment, sighing and tutting, before pulling forth triumphantly a thin blue cover.

“Here it is!” he said, laying it up on the top counter. “I have found it, yes indeed! It is yours, free of charge, Mr. Holmes, free of charge.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes, picking it up and glancing quickly at the cover. It was a small, plain volume with the lettering of the title and author in a black, curling font. He pocketed it, and turned to Barnes. “Good afternoon, Barnes, and thank you once again for your co-operation. It may be that we shall need to speak with you again on the matter, but I have all the information that I require for the time being.”

“Holmes,” I said to my friend when we were outside and heading back home once more, “I wonder why Barnes was so queer about that book. What do you suppose it contains?”

Holmes patted his pocket. “We will soon find out,” said he, “for I shall be reading it tonight.”


	4. Chapter 4

That evening we dined well on a dish of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent baked trout, and by 7 o’clock had moved across to our chairs by the fireplace to read, sip brandy and smoke our cigars. Holmes settled himself with the novel procured from Barnes, and I opened up my notebook with the intention of jotting down the events of the day and my thoughts on everything that had occurred. I became engrossed in my writing and alternately daydreaming into the fireplace, so did not look up to my friend for perhaps an hour although I could hear the soft rustle of his page turning the while. Eventually, I heard Holmes utter a low exclamation and I raised my head.

“Watson,” said he, rubbing at his forehead and shifting in his chair as though he were feeling very uncomfortable, “I can see now why Barnes saw fit to keep this novel hidden. My word.”

“What is it?”

“It is something of the like which I have never read before. A form of… erotica. I confess that it is very…” Holmes left his sentence unfinished, but the expression on his face was eloquent enough.

I winced sympathetically. “I am sorry that it is such a bad novel for you to have to work through, Holmes. I suppose that you must need finish it?”

Holmes looked at me with wide grey eyes. “It is not badly written. I intend to finish it! I am finding it…” Once again my friend was unable to complete his sentence. This was most unlike him.

Then I realised. “It is having an… effect on you?”

“Ah… a little, perhaps. I wish that I could say otherwise, because it is really very…”

This struck me suddenly as being very funny. Holmes flashed a mortified glance at my amusement.

“Read some aloud to me,” I demanded, laughing still.

“Absolutely not!”

“Then at least tell me what it is all about, otherwise I shall come over there and snatch it from you.”

Holmes flushed furiously. “I do not know where to begin,” he said, pouting. “There is a man, and some… woman… never mind about her… and ropes, and a blindfold, and shackles, and…”

“Oh!”

“Yes, precisely. It seems that I have led a very sheltered life, Watson.” And he began to chuckle at last. “I think I had better not read any more of it tonight, although it is a slim volume and I am halfway through already. Our Mr. Carter was a dark horse, indeed.”

“Do you have… anything which needs taking care of?”

“Your innuendo never improves. Come here, then.”

I was out of my chair and over to my friend within a short moment, before he had chance to draw breath, even. I straddled his lap, running my fingers through his hair, rutting into him, gently. He let out a short, soft moan. I lowered my head and we kissed, tongues flickering, pressing. I dipped down to his throat, that trembling, vulnerable hollow which I loved to breathe in the scent of, nuzzle, lick. His collar was much in the way; I undid two buttons, spread open his shirt, lapped at him. Sensitive skin, a fluttering pulse, my tongue upon it.

“God, John… had we not better take this upstairs… we will have the chair tipped over and the both of us in the fire if we continue like this.”

“I should like to have you on the hearth-rug,” I whispered into his ear. I felt him buck into me. My words do that to him, still. Through our layers of clothing I could feel the jut of his arousal.

“Not here,” he moaned, wanting it all the same.

“Yes, here.” I reached down between us and unfastened his flies.

“Lock the damned door then.”

“It is locked already.” I pushed my hand down and around his prick, although there was scarcely room enough, positioned as we were. I eased myself backwards and onto the rug. “Come here, my love.”

Holmes joined me, settled on his knees, a little uneasy. “I think we should not be doing this here,” said he, “we are more likely to be overheard, and what if we have a visitor?”

“At 8 o’clock in the evening, with no prior warning?” I tugged at his shirt, pulled it loose from his trousers.

“It could happen. John… ah, damn it.” He gave up then, and launched himself at me, knocking us both flat upon the rug where we wrestled and struggled with clothing, with each other. Once we had torn away our lower garments and were bare enough, we took momentary pause.

“What would please you?” Holmes asked, upon his back already in anticipation of what I should likely want from him. He opened his legs, an invitation.

“Do you want that?” I asked him, moving my hand to his backside and rubbing him slowly. He wriggled delightfully at my ministrations. “Me inside you? We have no oil to hand, I could fetch some from upsta-”

“Use spit,” said he, “it will be quite all right.”

“You asked for it,” I chuckled, “let’s see how you like this.” I flipped him onto his stomach without any further warning; he grunted as he received a faceful of bearskin. I pushed his shirt up, kissed my way down his spine, felt him quiver, moan softly. I caressed his pale skin, and flattened my hands against the small of his back, fanned them down around his buttocks, kneading, separating. I lowered my head.

Holmes gasped loudly at the first touch of my tongue. He might have pushed up in surprise, but that I was holding him down firmly with both hands while my mouth carried out its busywork. Licking, tracing, teasing, intimating a little - a very little - enough to make him squeal and writhe. Then groaning my name, over and over, scrabbling at the edges of the rug in his passion, _John-please-oh-John-please-John_. I might carry on until he came from this alone with scarcely a touch to his own prick, for the sensation of my tongue so affected him, but I drew back, releasing him, raising myself up onto my knees as he lay panting heavily on his front still.

“Don’t stop, John, don’t stop.” Between gasps.

I grasped hold of his hips, hoisting him up into a half-kneeling position, propped up on his arms, his rump presented for me, pale and beautiful. I applied some saliva to my shaft, slicked it, and pressed it to his entrance, pushing in slowly in spite of my eagerness. He whimpered as the first inch opened him up and entered his body. I held steady until I felt his muscles gradually relax; I pushed deeper inside then, listening to his guttural moans of pleasure and encouragement until I was entirely within and might begin to move. I did so, then, my knees braced upon the rug, my hands clasped tight around his shoulders. I took him with scant regard for the noise that either of us might make; I thrust into him repeatedly, exulting in his groans and his growing delirium. He collapsed completely upon the rug at one point, altering the angle of my thrusting and serving to send us both into a higher passion, he bucking back to meet me, my rhythm growing ever more erratic as I approached my climax. With a few last, hard shoves inside him, I came with a low roar of relief. Twisting down to look at Holmes I saw that he had already come, a minute ago or even earlier, for he was mopping up with the front of his shirt and catching his breath back.

“That was glorious,” he gasped, laughing, as I kissed his cheek, and laid full across him, unable to move now for the pleasure of it.

“It was indeed, my love,” I replied, “in fact, I should -”

And then we both heard it: the sound of the front door below us, slamming shut.

We froze, rigid, panicked.

“Was that someone coming in, or going out?” I whispered.

We strained to listen for footsteps, but could hear none. We waited for the sound of an internal downstairs door, but there was no further sound.

“This is a potential disaster,” said Holmes, “get off me now, my boy, we must dress.”

We did so without speaking, hardly looking at each other, but both listening intently for any noise outside the door or in the downstairs hall.

There came none, and we were filled with the dread of it.


	5. Chapter 5

“I am not blaming you, my dear fellow,” Holmes told me, as we sat side by side upon the sofa that same evening. “It is both our faults for taking insufficient precaution.” He struck at his forehead in frustration. “Ah! If only we should always practice as we preach. But there we were carried away by the moment, and here we are now, wondering where it may lead.”

“It is possible that we were not overheard at all, Holmes,” I suggested, trying as best I might to ease my friend’s anxiety. “Until we know who it was inside the hall, we can do nothing further. We did not hear a footstep outside our door or a rattle at the handle, so there is some hope, I think?”

“Scarcely,” Holmes replied, lighting himself a cigarette and dragging upon it ferociously. “Simply because a man does not clomp around in hob-nailed boots announcing his arrival to all and sundry, does not mean that he is not there all the same. Watson, I do not know what to think, but at the present moment it is the worst scenario imaginable. Tomorrow morning we must speak with Mrs. Hudson.”

He put an arm around my shoulder then, and I leaned into him. He kissed my head tenderly.

“I love you,” I told him, as if he should not know that already. He squeezed my shoulder in response.

“I love you too, John,” said he, and we fell quiet then, for there seemed little more that might usefully be said to one another without completing the circle and starting over once more from the beginning.

~~~~~~~~~~

A brief dialogue with Mrs. Hudson when she delivered our breakfast dishes the following morning revealed that, quite regrettably, the main entry door had been unlocked for the middle part of the previous evening.

“Why yes,” answered our landlady, appearing a little nonplussed at our questioning, “I was expecting a visit from a dear friend, Mrs. Turner, and so I did not lock the door, Mr. Holmes, just for ease of allowing her entry from the rainstorm and so that I should not have to walk the distance to the door. I do not generally leave it unlocked - I am most upset if it has caused you any trouble, gentlemen?”

Mrs. Hudson looked from one to the other of us, her hands clasped fretfully to her chest. I felt quite certain then that the good lady could know nothing of the matter, for her expression seemed one purely of concern.

“Could you tell us what time your friend arrived and, furthermore, departed?” asked Holmes.

“Mrs. Turner arrived at 7.30pm, and left I think perhaps two hours later. No-one called upon us in the meantime, Mr. Holmes, for I should have heard them.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, his face set. “That will be all.”

“Nine thirty, Holmes,” I said, sombrely. “We were engaged much earlier than that, at around 8.15pm, I think.”

“Yes, Watson,” said he, pushing the breakfast tray away from him, “I am quite aware of that. And we are no wiser now than we were last night. We can do nothing more than wait and see what transpires. Well, well, we must keep ourselves busy and not dwell upon it too greatly. There is a dead man at the mortuary whose murderer still runs free, and we must do our best to address that fact. I will interview Mr. Carter’s neighbours today, I think, to begin with.”

“Shall I accompany you?”

Holmes shook his head. “Best, perhaps, that you remain here in the event that our mysterious visitor returns. Do not pull a face, my boy, do not worry. I shall drink this cup of coffee and then be on my way. I hope to return by midday at the very latest, and we can talk then.”

Those who know me well will attest to the fact that it is generally not within my nature to brood; but I came as near to it as I have ever done for that first hour after Holmes had departed for Morecambe Road. I had secretly little doubt that we had been overheard by a person, or persons, unknown, and what they might decide to do with their newfound information was of great concern. As deeply as I felt the embarrassment at the nature of what had likely been overheard, it was moreover the fear of being reported - the shame of an investigation, the humiliation of an arrest, our reputations in tatters. Due to our initial discretion we held no incriminating evidence, thankfully - there were no love letters or compromising photographs; no confidantes who might turn against us - save for Gregson. My face flushed and my hands felt as ice as I thought then of the power the Inspector could potentially hold and wield against us if he chose to do so. The word of a respected Scotland Yarder would always be accepted above ours, irrespective of how well known and admired my friend had become to those in the higher authorities over the past few years.

A telegram was delivered at 10 o’clock. My heart swooped to my boots, but it was merely a message from Inspector Lestrade, informing us that his team had questioned the owners of all the businesses and properties which backed onto the Glenworth Street alley but with nothing conclusive to report. Lestrade advised that he would call upon us later if new data should come to light. I received this information glumly and folded the sheet back into its envelope. The spine-cracked copy of ‘Dark Dreams’ lay upon the side table still, a small card inserted midway through by Holmes. I ignored it, as I also did its accompanying volume ‘The Broken Bracelet’, which lay beside it unopened. I wondered if either might have any bearing whatsoever upon the case at hand. And if so, then what? A character from Carter’s own personal life, placed into fiction and described a little too well? A written slight, a sneering paragraph, an unflattering portrayal, and I supposed that to an unstable mind it might be justified in a call for harsh revenge.

I was reading through that morning’s paper which had a full account of the murder upon the front page, when Holmes returned, stamping his boots and shaking the rain from his hat and coat.

“Any news?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in query. I shrugged.

“If you can count a terse telegram from Lestrade as news, then I suppose so,” I replied, handing him the envelope.

“Ah well,” said he, “I suspected as much. My own enquiries at Morecambe Road did not prove any more successful. It is all rather frustrating. Carter was the only occupant on the ground floor of the property. The first floor flat is occupied by a very old, desiccated gentleman, who declares that upon the evening of the murder he was swaddled in his bed with a streaming head cold and a glass of hot lemon, and was aware of nothing except his own misery. He did let out that Mr. Carter was a relatively quiet neighbour, who occasionally organised late-night revels in his rooms which would result in some boisterous singing, shouting, and the odd angry argument - nothing, however, which ever got out of hand. The second floor rooms are let to a young lady florist, I am informed, but she is currently away visiting her mother in Wales. We are thus stymied on this particular path of enquiry, I do believe, Watson.”

I moved across to place an arm across my friend’s shoulder, but he moved away deftly.

“No, Watson. In view of our present situation I do not think it wise for any display of physical affection during the day, when we are more than usually open to being observed.”

I withdrew. “I only wished to touch your shoulder, Holmes, it was not my intention to -”

“I know, my dear fellow,” said he, impatiently, “but you simply must realise the risk that we are laid open to now. And it occurs to me to speculate as to why Lestrade sent a telegram when he more usually prefers to visit us in person to discuss a shared case.”

“He is likely busy with paperwork and does not have the time to spare,” I said. “Will you finish that terrible novel, still?”

“Well, of course I must,” said he, picking it up now and fanning through it distractedly. “And then I shall take a glance at its sequel. Actually, I do rather hope that it is _not_ a sequel. I can’t imagine a novel of this description winning any sort of award, so I should suspect not.”

I relayed to Holmes my own theory regarding Carter and fact versus fiction. Holmes nodded.

“Yes, that is my own thinking. I have also sent out threads of enquiry to a number of the taverns within the area of the Morecambe Road, and we shall see what light that might bring us. If our friend Carter was the sort to revel and be rowdy at home, then it stands to reason that he should also be likely to carouse outside of it. I imagine that his drinking companions would have more of interest to tell us than an old, excluded neighbour.”

Holmes threw himself into his armchair then, and opened up his book.

“Strictly business, not pleasure,” he advised me, with a half smile and a wink.

~~~~~~~~~

By the early afternoon, Holmes had received word back from his man on the street: a rough looking fellow by the name of Shinwell Johnson. Johnson stood in our doorway now, shuffling from one patched boot to the other, twisting his cloth cap in his hands and grimacing at me with an expression I really rather hoped was benevolent.

“Ay, Mr. Holmes, I found out where your fellow used to hang out,” said he. “It only took a couple of jaunts and I hit upon it. Try your luck at ‘The Merry Chestnut’ tonight and you’ll catch a few of his cronies for sure.”

“What a name for an inn,” exclaimed my friend. “Thank you, Johnson, I appreciate your help. I’ll be in touch again if I need you. Stay out of trouble, eh, my man.”

“I shall do my best,” chuckled the unshaven Shinwell Johnson, and then he was on his way, with a nod and a stiff bow to us both.

“Tonight we shall partake of an ale at ‘The Merry Chestnut’, Watson,” said Holmes. “I believe the dress code on this occasion should be down, rather than up. At least you cannot complain that I never take you anywhere.”

‘The Merry Chestnut’, indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

Seven o’clock that evening saw us disguised as a most disreputable couple of fellows, by comparison with our more usual attire. Dressed as we were in all our oldest casuals, with soft caps, scarves and overcoats against the inclement weather, Holmes declared that we should blend in very well with the assorted clientele of ‘The Merry Chestnut’.

“Utterly gorgeous, as always, Watson,” said he, sidling up to me and pinching my behind just moments before leaving our sitting-room.

“It is miraculous what a change of garb can do,” said I. “I thought you to be paranoid about ears at the door and eyes to the keyhole.”

“The front door is safely locked tonight, my boy, and the curtains are drawn - but I appreciate what you say, all the same, and I shall do my utmost not to molest you once we are inside the inn. We should survive intact.”

The outside air was cool, but the streets were dry and the night sky was clear. We strolled along as two old friends, amiably conversing upon a number of my friend’s most currently favoured topics: the music of the Middle Ages, and mediaeval pottery in particular; taking up enough time with each that we were standing outside the front of ‘The Merry Chestnut’ almost before we knew it.

“Here we are, now,” said Holmes, pulling his cap down further across his brow, “and remember, do not speak unless spoken to, and try not to start a fracas, my dear fellow.”

He opened the door of the inn then, and we entered into the light and warmth, and surrounding hubbub.

The main room was half-full already, mostly with fellows of a similar appearance and humour to ourselves, and a few garish young women, who cackled shrilly over the tumult of conversation and bullish laughter.

“Two pints of your finest ale, please landlord,” said Holmes, casually, scrabbling through his pockets and tossing a small number of coins onto the counter top. “Thank you. What a terrible business about poor Carter.”

“Aye, that it is,” replied the landlord, placing down our pint glasses and counting off the coins into his palm. “We only saw him a couple of days before, too, and he was talking and laughing as always. A rotten shame. He owed us money on his tab.”

“Oh dear, that’s bad luck. I’d like to pay my condolences to his mates, if they are here tonight. Could you point me across to them?”

“They are all over there, in that far corner,” replied the landlord, pointing to a long-table at which two middle-aged men and a woman were sitting.

“Come, Watson,” whispered Holmes, “let us see what this group has to say. Ah! See the young lady there.”

I saw immediately what had caught my friend’s attention. Becoming as she may have been, in a trimmed dark green dress which was lower cut and more revealing than perhaps was strictly tasteful, our lady in question also boasted a full head of lustrous, thick red hair. She tossed it now as she leaned back to down a generous measure of gin. Her companions took pause and eyed us suspiciously as we approached their nook.

“Good evening, gents, madam,” said my friend. “I was only just now talking to the landlord, and he said that we might make ourselves known to you. We were both good friends of old Carter, and very sorry to hear of his passing.”

The fellow at the head of the table, a morose looking sort dressed in dark grey from head to foot, regarded us with hostile curiosity.

“Yes, he’s passed on, all right,” said he, in a gruff voice, “how did you know him then? Never seen either of you around here before, which I should say is more than strange.”

“We knew him through his work,” replied Holmes briskly, “and we writers stick together, don’t we, but we don’t live local to here, so that’s likely why you’ve not seen us. Did you all know him well?”

“Well enough,” said a slight, fair-haired chap, sitting at grey-suit’s left elbow. “We played cards and drank together here most evenings, and Tilly here used to be sweet on him until there was a bit of trouble. Aye, we’re sad to lose him. And he owed me money. I’ll never get it back now.”

“I didn’t know old Carter gambled,” said Holmes, “was he on a losing streak, then?”

“Naw, nothing too bad, just the usual. He had the sense to stop when he was in danger of losing the shirt off his back. He’d scrape back again somehow.”

Holmes turned to the red-haired girl, with a friendly smile. “And you had a friendship with him, Miss Tilly?”

She sniffed, and rubbed at her nose with a sleeve. “That I did, sir, for three months almost, until my other man, Charlie, caught wind of it and threatened Oswald something awful. He gave my Oswald a broken rib and an earful of language and told him he weren’t to bother me no more. I didn’t even get to choose between ‘em. So here I am stuck with Charlie, who’s bad enough when he’s on the drink. But at least now I can sit and talk with my friends here and not need worry if Oswald might walk through the door at any minute. But I miss ‘im, all the same.” And she sniffed and mopped again.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss,” said Holmes. “When did all this happen, and where is Charlie now?”

“It were two months ago. And Charlie’s late. We’re expectin’ him, but he hasn’t turned up yet. He’s likely passed out by himself at home, the great fool.”

“Do any of you have any idea who might have bumped Carter off?” asked Holmes, sipping from his pint.

“No, we don’t,” said grey-suit, “and we don’t like these questions, either. We don’t know you. Clear off from here, now. If Charlie shows up with you here rabbiting on, you’ll soon know about it.”

“Fine, we’ll leave you to your drink,” said Holmes, standing and nodding courteously to the small group. “Thanks for your time and your conversation, gentlemen, Miss Tilly.”

We retreated to the bar, and Holmes turned to me.

“What do you think of them, Watson?”

“I am very suspicious of the grey-suited fellow, Holmes. He became most aggressive when you were talking to him. I would lay down money on the chance of him being our man.”

“You would lose your money, then,” replied Holmes. “You ought to pay closer attention to detail. Mr. Grey-suit is a war veteran, as you might have noted from his deportment. See also that his right arm has been amputated, likely due to service injury - the sleeve of his jacket is strapped across the front. Carter’s death blow was dealt by a right-handed man, from the angle of the wound. Our fair-haired friend is too small and slight to have the strength to carry a heavy body for any distance. Miss Tilly we can discount by the same reasoning. I observed that her hair, also, is the genuine article and not a wig, which throws my earlier tentative hypothesis out of the window. Dear me. That leaves us with the vulgar ‘Charlie’, who I rather hope that we might encounter before we leave.”

“Speak for yourself, Holmes,” said I. “He sounds quite odious, and I have no desire to stumble across him either here or in a dark alley, particularly if he is the worse for liquor.”

Holmes chuckled wryly. “You have permission to return home if you would prefer it, Watson.”

“I will not leave you here alone,” I replied hotly. “I should never forgive myself if you fell into trouble and I was not there to assist you.”

Holmes touched my elbow. “My boy, I can always rely on you. Let us wait a while longer. If this Charlie does not show then I can always return another time, for by the sounds of it he is a regular at this dive.”

We remained for a further hour, but our mysterious drunken friend did not arrive. The group we had spoken with earlier remained at their table, and were occupied between themselves for the most part, although I noticed that the titian Miss Tilly would shoot us occasional questing glances. Eventually, as we set down our pint glasses and brushed down our jackets ready to depart, she made a decisive move and parted momentarily from her companions. She caught up with us at the door, just.

“I do not yet know your name, sir,” said she, looking up at Holmes.

“My name is Escott,” he replied, doffing his cap.

She smiled up at him. “You are not like the others, you are well mannered and civil,” said she. “And you are a fine looking man. Handsome!” She fluffed her hair, and touched a finger to the corner of her mouth. “If you cared to pay me a private visit some time then I should not be opposed to it, Mr. Escott.”

“That is very… generous of you, Miss Tilly,” said my friend, “but I understand you to already have a suitor, by way of your man Charlie?”

“Ah, him.” She grimaced and motioned a spit to the floor. “He’s a lump of lard and a waste of my time; I don’t know why I continue with him, except for the obvious reasons, if you get my meaning. But you, you are _lovely_. I should very much like to see you again, Mr. Escott, sir.” And she pressed a paper into my friend’s palm. “That is my address.”

“Thank you,” said Holmes, pocketing the paper. “Although I’m not keen on acquiring a broken nose or a cracked rib, all the same. Where does your Charlie live? Perhaps I should pay him a call first, that we might clear the air.”

“Oh, no!” Miss Tilly appeared horrified. “That would be the worst thing you could do! This must be between us alone. I can be very discreet, Mr. Escott, and you would not regret it.”

“I’m sure that I wouldn’t,” he replied. “Thank you again, I will keep this paper. Goodbye for now, Miss Tilly.”

“Holmes!” I hissed apoplectically, when we were outside on the street once more. “You cannot be considering paying this… woman a visit? Not in all seriousness?”

Holmes began to laugh. “Watson, calm down. I have not crossed over to the other side of the road quite as suddenly as all that. I have no intention of calling upon Miss Tilly unless it is absolutely vital to the case, but I was, however, keen on obtaining the address of her not-so-beloved. It is of no matter, as I said, I will take another shot at that tomorrow.”

“She called you ‘lovely’, and she ignored me completely,” I grumbled, stalking a little way ahead, unable to control my ill temper. Holmes found this very amusing, and chuckled the while as he caught up with me.

“You are such a bear, Watson. What does it matter? You are lovelier to me than all the tulips in Amsterdam, if such appalling flowery hyperbole pleases you.”

“It does not, particularly, but thank you all the same,” I replied, smiling now.

We reached Baker Street after a while of walking, and unlocked the door.

“Hello, what’s this?” said my friend, as he stooped to pick up an envelope from the mat. “A strange time for someone to be hand-delivering messages.”

He opened it and read the single sheet of paper, and then handed it across to me in pale silence. One line of unsigned, typewritten text in the centre which read:

“ _DISCRETION GOES A LONG WAY, MR. HOLMES. IT IS A PITY._ ”

“Oh dear,” I said, calmly, but feeling so very much worse.


	7. Chapter 7

Safely upstairs in our sitting-room, I poured out two generous tumblers full of whisky and sat down upon the sofa with them as Holmes lit us each a cigarette.

“Here,” said he, passing one across. “Never underestimate the power of teamwork.”

I managed a smile as I dragged on the cigarette and took a large swallow of the malt.

“What’s going to happen?” I asked, repeating the question several times over in my daze.

“Watson, I do not know, so it is pointless to panic. Let us deduce what we can from this.”

Holmes sat beside me, and spread the note open on his knee. He jabbed at it with his right forefinger.

“The paper is nondescript; nothing of interest there. It is typewritten though - and the envelope, too - now, that is suggestive. The author thinks it likely then that we might recognise their script, otherwise it would have been very much easier for them to have printed out those few words in ink pen. There is a heavy smudging inside each ‘O’, and the ‘E’s are raised slightly above the line, otherwise it is a uniform type. I find it strange that no terms are put forward in the note, merely an admonishment. That could either be a good omen - meaning that nothing further will occur - or a bad one, meaning that the police will be, or have been, informed and might swoop down upon us at any given moment. Watson, my boy, _calm down_ , it might not come to that.”

“Who could have typed it?” I moaned, my head in my hands.

“It is not brother Mycroft,” said Holmes softly, “for obvious reasons. An old client, or even a new one, perhaps? Possibly Lestrade, or Gregson? Perish the thought of it being either of them; I would count Lestrade as a friend. I don’t know, Watson, I don’t know. We must wait, still. Our opponent is holding all of the cards; we have none to play with.”

“The waiting is agony,” I said, leaning back heavily against the sofa cushions. “You believe it is unlikely to be blackmail, then?”

“It is certainly an unusual way to _begin_ a blackmail,” replied Holmes, “that is all I am thinking. They must have no material proof other than the nature of what was heard. That is likely it.”

“We cannot sleep together, then, until this is resolved,” said I, “for that would put the nail in it, if the police were to burst in and find us.”

Holmes gnawed at a fingernail. He picked up the paper and scowled at it, narrowing his eyes as though attempting to divine the identity of the author by sheer force of will.

“But _how_ to resolve it?” he murmured, tapping thoughtfully at his chin. “How indeed?”

~~~~~~~~~~~

The following morning found us subdued but resolute. We would sit it out and wait for our foe to make their next move, whatever that might be.

“It makes me very angry, Holmes,” said I, slamming the breakfast dishes around the tray. “I wonder could we approach Mycroft for assistance, what do you think?”

Holmes clattered his coffee cup down into its saucer. Any mention of his elder brother quite often provoked such a reaction. “Whyever should you think of such a thing?” he asked, aghast. “What on earth could Mycroft do, when we are still none the wiser as to who is behind this? Mycroft is as subtle as a herd of stampeding elephants inside a china factory; it would be a catastrophe. Besides, I have no desire whatsoever to receive a stern lecture from him on the many negative ramifications of raucous hearth-rug sex, thank you, Watson. He would take an unbearable pleasure in giving it, and I am mortified enough as it is.”

“Are you returning to ‘The Merry Chestnut’ today?” I asked, changing the subject before we began an argument.

“Yes, I must do that,” he replied. “I will catch the lunchtime crowd, and hopefully our friend Charlie along with it. Until then, I suppose I might begin reading the wretched ‘Broken Bracelet’, although I declare that I do not feel remotely up for it. If there is one solitary mention of a whip or a handcuff within the first 60 pages then I am hurling it out of the window, and to hell with it.”

I laughed, in spite of everything. “It turns you on, all the same,” said I.

“Damn it, yes, Watson, and look where that got us,” he replied, rapping my knuckles with his coffee spoon. “Behave, and eat your toast now.”

Holmes settled down to read the novel of the Broken Bracelet - or whatever it might be about, if not an unhappy piece of jewellery - and I seated myself at my desk to catch up with some neglected correspondence. We remained quiet for several hours. I confess that I was unable to concentrate fully upon my letters, and doubted that the end results would make very much sense, but my good intent was there. I flung down my pen at 11 o’clock and looked across at Holmes.

“How is it, then?” I asked him, for he was still turning the pages intently.

“It is rather better than the last,” he replied, “but I am still unable to discern where a potential hurt feeling or slight might have originated. The characters in ‘Dark Dreams’ were quite unspecific, apart from their… appetites, shall we say. The population of ‘Broken Bracelet’ are so far very amiable and unthreatening, albeit fussing inexplicably about a missing family heirloom - and the Vicar’s mother just fell headfirst into the lake. Hum. I can see no reason for anyone taking offence to this to the point of committing murder, Watson.”

“We seem to be coming up against a stone wall at every turn,” I said, foraging for my pack of envelopes.

“Yes, but with so many loose strands at present we must surely catch up the end of one of them before very long,” said my friend. “I still have some theories from the evidence we found at Carter’s flat.”

“I did not see any evidence,” I frowned. “You still have not explained to me exactly what it was that you discovered, Holmes.”

“I should not care to say, until I have cause to either confirm or disprove,” he replied, infuriatingly. “And now I must dress.”

He emerged from his room a few minutes later in the same mess as the previous evening, and smiled at me from under his cloth cap. With a promise to return before the afternoon was out, he was gone, and I stood at the window and watched as he sauntered off down the street, already easing into his temporary adopted persona of brash ne’er do well. I turned away, and contemplated how best I might spend the next few hours. With my thoughts inclined as they were, I found myself at a sudden impulsive decision, pulling a telegraph form from my desk drawer and scribbling down a few lines. Not hesitating for one moment to consider if I was making a wise move or one more error of judgement in a succession that was beginning to stretch out behind me now, I trotted down the stairs and outside into the street, fixed upon my errand.

Upon my return I called down to Mrs. Hudson for a fresh pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Sitting then at the small breakfast table by the window to chew at them, I sipped a cup of the strong brew and tapped the carpet nervously with my foot. I drummed my fingers anxiously upon the tablecloth. An eternity, or an hour passed by, then the front door bell rang, and I heard our landlady tread the hall to answer it. A minute later, there was a knock at the sitting-room door. I sprang up to open it, and a tall figure entered the doorframe.

“Gregson,” said I, with a combination of relief, dread and a third, indefinable emotion. “Thank you for coming.”

Inspector Gregson stepped into the room and removed his hat, placing it upon the side table.

“I came as soon as I received your summons,” said he, frowning. “Where is Mr. Holmes?”

“He is out on business,” I replied. “I wished to speak with you alone, however.”

“I see.” Gregson moved across to the sofa and sat down upon the edge of it. He looked up at me, motioning that I join him in the opposite chair. “You seem on edge, Doctor.”

I studied him closely, but his expression was inscrutable. The Inspector waited for me to speak. When I did not immediately do so, he leaned forward and rested his elbows upon his knees.

“I know what this is about,” said he. He nodded, and raised his eyebrows.

“You do?”

“Yes, I believe so. But this is hardly neutral territory. I am surprised that you wished to speak with me here, of all places.”

“I needed our meeting to be private, Gregson. There seemed nowhere else suitable.” Considering the conversation that we were now having, my nerves felt remarkably cool and steady. “If you know the reason for my calling you here, then speak. Come on, out with it. Tell me what it is that you want.”

Gregson looked surprised. He sat up, lifted his elbows, straightened his back.

“What I want? I am not certain that I follow you, Doctor. Is this meeting not about Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, but -” I screwed my face up in confusion. “Gregson, I think we may be speaking at crossed purposes here. What do you _think_ you know? Let us begin there, and work forwards.”

Gregson fidgeted, and fixed his eyes upon the carpet. “That your friendship with Mr. Holmes is experiencing difficulties, and you wished for my advice, or my shoulder, or something more.” He flickered a glance up to me, then cast down again. He bit his lip. “Have I misinterpreted your anxiety? I do seem to be making a rather unfortunate habit of this, Doctor.”

“Um, I am not sure,” I said - for I was not. “Holmes and I are not in a general difficulty, at any rate, but a rather more specific one.”

“I think you must explain this to me in more detail,” said the poor, confused Inspector, “for I am understanding very little of what either of us is saying to the other.”

“Nor am I,” I replied. This was becoming farcical. “Gregson, I am counting upon your discretion here, for I know you to be a friend, even though we have had our differences in the past. A few evenings ago, Holmes and I were… occupied here in the sitting-room, and we were… overheard by someone in the hallway, who managed to gain access to the house without our knowledge. And last night we received this message.”

I handed the Inspector the typed note, which he examined with close attention.

“I am terrified that we will be blackmailed, or worse,” I finished.

Gregson was apparently transfixed by the note. After some seconds, he looked up.

“You were ‘occupied’? In a physical act?”

I nodded, my face scarlet. Gregson looked at the note again.

“That was very indiscreet of you, Doctor,” he said.

“Yes, I am well aware of that!!” I exploded. “Sorry,” I added, a second later, “I am so sorry.”

“It is all right. What do you wish of me? Advice? Surely you do not want to open an investigation, bearing in mind the sensitivity of the issue?”

“My God, no,” I said, panicked by the mere thought of it, “not an investigation. In the first instance I wanted to ascertain that the note did not come from you - Gregson, I apologise, but I needed to be sure - and secondly, yes, for advice, if you would be kind enough to give it.”

Gregson whistled through his teeth, and sighed. His fingers flicked nervously at the typed paper, and he stared into the middle distance.

“I might be able to help you,” said he. “Do not ask me how, Doctor, but I will try. My only advice at present is, for God’s sake, be more discreet in the future. If you should be caught by another Yarder, then it would be a prison sentence, you realise that? Believe me, I walk the same perilous line every day also; it is no easier for me. At least you have a companion to share your life with. For pity’s sake, do not place yourselves in such jeopardy.”

The Inspector stood up. “Leave things with me,” he said. “I shall say nothing of it to anyone, you have my word.” He lifted his hat from the table, and turned around to leave.

“Thank you, Gregson,” I said, the relief more than I could adequately express at that moment. “Thank you.”

He smiled then, and nodded. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

The moment he had departed, I crossed to the fireplace for my pipe and tobacco. I now had a new concern, which somewhat cancelled out my feelings of relief. Holmes. Should I tell him of our new confidante? What would his reaction be? Perhaps I should have consulted with him first?

I always have had the tendency to act in haste and repent at leisure.


	8. Chapter 8

While I was dealing with my quandary thus by smoking an ounce of ships’ tobacco, Holmes meanwhile was making some manner of progress at ‘The Merry Chestnut’, as he was eager to relate to me upon his return. It was not quite 5 o’clock when the front door rattled and I heard his bounding steps on the stairs. He entered the room and threw himself into his armchair.

“Watson!” said he, “I am quite done in. You cannot imagine how tiring it is keeping up this façade for an entire afternoon. I have made some progress, and from an unexpected quarter. It is all very intriguing, my dear fellow. This room is like a pea-souper! How have you been?”

“I have been well, Holmes, but there is something that I would like to -”

“Good,” Holmes interrupted me, lighting his own pipe, “I am glad you managed to find something with which to occupy your time. Now, let me tell you about Mr. Charlie Sun.”

“I am all ears, Holmes, but first I need to -”

“It is confoundedly chilly in here!” Holmes jostled the coals with the poker, and huddled closer to the flames. “Brrr. So. Our fine friend, Mr. Sun. There he was, all right, as I thought he might be, sitting at the bar nursing his whisky bottle, for I heard the landlord address and scold him for keeping his friends waiting the last night. He could not have been at the whisky for very long, for he was meek and quiet. I sat down on a stool beside him, and we got to talking. For all his wild reputation, he was tolerable company - although I dare say I should reconsider that if I came across him in the last flush of drink. He has a temper on him, I was able to tell, which corresponds well enough with the charming Miss. Tilly’s statement.

“So we talked, and of course I brought up Carter’s name the first chance I could. Sun all but spit his whisky across the bar.

‘Ah, that hack!’ said he, “he shouldn’t be expecting any wreath from me at his funeral. Stealing my girl, double-crossing my friends, and never any money to show for himself, even with his new-found wealth, the scoundrel. Bah. Better gone, that’s what I say.’

‘Well, your girl is still with you, at any rate,’ I replied to him, ‘but how did he double-cross your mates?’

‘By lyin’ to ‘em,’ said he. ‘By going back on his word, and behaving’ like the hack he was all along.’

“Well, Watson, as you can imagine, my ears pricked at that statement. I questioned our fellow some more, and gradually he let go that a friend of his, Richard Robinson, had had a set-to with Carter two weeks ago. Sun was not aware of all the details, except that Carter had stolen from Robinson, and Robinson was not best pleased about it. Their argument did not reach the point of violence at that time, but there was a harsh argument, and threats were bandied about. I have Robinson’s address right here,” and Holmes took it from his pocket and waved it, “and I shall pay him a visit tomorrow, for he was not at home when I called an hour ago.”

“So you have dismissed Sun from your investigation?” I asked.

“Yes, the man has an alibi: he was working the night-shift over at Yarnstable’s factory, and his supervisor confirms that he was there for the duration of the time that Carter was having his head pummelled. Ah, well. From one bird on to another, and hopefully Mr. Robinson will quack for us.”

“I do hope so, Holmes. Now, my dear fellow, you must let me have my turn to speak.” I gulped, and sat down opposite my friend; I fiddled with my shirt cuff.

“I sent a telegram to Inspector Gregson and he came here and I told him of our plight,” I said, in one huge rush of words. I breathed in, and regarded Holmes anxiously. He had leaned forward in his chair, his hands were clutched tensely upon the arms.

“You did _what?_ ”

“I wanted to eliminate him from our suspects, Holmes. I was nervous and worried, and, well, you know he is one of us, and I thought I would -”

“You thought you would confirm to him a union that up until now he may only have guessed at. Well done, Watson. Very well done, my boy.”

Holmes stood, the tension writ across him. He made for the window, doubled back, and then began to pace, scratching at his head.

“But Holmes, you and he argued about the subject many months ago, did you not?”

Holmes glared at me. “We did not exchange any specific words that I might recall, no. I did, however, treat him to a black eye, which he has likely not yet forgiven me for. Words seemed futile on that occasion, Watson.”

The pieces fell into place. I blinked. “I am sorry, Holmes. I do think, however, that that may have given Gregson as much of an idea as an entire descriptive paragraph in italicised capital letters and underlining.”

Holmes strode back to his chair, and sat down, his grey eyes fast upon me. “What did Gregson say to you this afternoon?”

“He warned me of the necessity for discretion, but was sympathetic all the same. He said that he might be able to help us.”

“Help us, how?” Holmes was singularly unhappy, drumming his fingers in agitation and scowling away from me into the fire.

“He did not say. Not by official methods, if I understood his inference correctly. He will not inform his superiors of this matter. It is not he who wrote the note, Holmes.”

“Well, that is of little comfort. So, we have Gregson acting on our behalf in an unofficial capacity, doing who knows what in that incredibly nebulous way of his, and we are as open now to exposure as we ever were, if not more so. I am going to telegram him. Really, Watson.”

Holmes snatched up a telegraph form, and began to write furiously. Then he was making for the door, eyebrows raised in my direction.

“It will be all right, my boy, don’t look so downcast,” said he. “I shall just send this wire and will be back within 10 minutes. I really must change out of these clothes, too, they are terribly chafing.”

I sat and waited. The sky outside was dark, threatening further rain; the wind howled and rattled the letterbox, whistling around the hallway. I had just set my thoughts upon wondering what Mrs. Hudson might be preparing for dinner, when Holmes returned. He tossed a folded sheet of paper into my lap, and stood back against the wall.

“Another hand-delivered missive,” said he. “This one is exceptionally charming.”

I opened it, and read:

“ _MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.  
CONSULTING CATAMITE._”

“How vulgar,” I said, my temper flaring, “what a coward this person is! I wish I might know their identity - I would show them a thing or two - they would not be able to see or hear for a month.”

“It is the same typeface, and brand of paper,” said Holmes, calmly. “And it was delivered within the same time bracket, more or less. That could mean nothing, of course, but we have so little data to go on. If I could examine the print of every typewriter in London then I would do so, for I am in that frame of mind right now.”

“The author still does not put forward any terms,” I commented. “It cannot be blackmail, Holmes.”

“No. These are the words of a spiteful, possibly vengeful person, who merely wishes to cause the greatest distress of which they are capable. To them, a blackmail would be messy and not without its own risk. A series of insulting notes would be considered preferable. Perhaps they will inform the police; they might likely choose not to.”

“What did you put in your telegram to Gregson?” I asked, handing the note back to my friend.

“That I wished to see him, at his convenience. I was civil, Watson; please do not imagine that I hurled a mass of invective at him within the limits of a telegraph form.” Holmes paused. “I trust he did not insinuate himself while he was here this afternoon?”

“No, he did not,” I sighed, “he was a gentleman.”

“In fear of another black eye, no doubt. Ha. Well, let us turn our attention to rather more pleasant matters, if we can summon up the enthusiasm. Mrs. Hudson’s roast chicken! But I must change clothes!”

Holmes disappeared into his bedroom to remove his dishevelled costume and wash up. I heard him humming through the door: a soft familiar melody I could not quite place. I went down to speak with our landlady and to inform her that we would be ready to dine within the hour. I glanced suspiciously at the front doormat upon my return upstairs, but there was nothing further deposited there. I supposed that we might learn more upon the morrow, as regards both the case and the evil notes - if Gregson should call upon us with an update, as I hoped that he would. Waiting is rarely agreeable, but it is sometimes very necessary.


	9. Chapter 9

I was awoken a little after midnight by the soft creak of my bedroom door opening. I squinted through the black at the barest outline of a nightshirt-clad Holmes, as he tiptoed silently towards me.

“Holmes,” I whispered, raising myself up onto one elbow, “what is it? Has something happened?”

“No,” he replied softly, sitting down upon the edge of the bed, “nothing is wrong. I could not sleep. I wanted to be with you. To hell with them. Move over.”

I threw back the covers, and Holmes crawled inside. He wrapped his arms around me. “That is better,” said he. “I will not stay for long; I just needed this.”

I stroked his dark head, kissed him, and he wriggled closer as a cold puppy, burrowing his nose into my side. How I adored these moments when the guard was dropped: that aloof, restrained mask, which my friend so necessarily assumed and maintained each and every day. When he became the loving, protective, passionate partner, for whom I had longed so many years before it became reality. He was mine; he had told me so. Hell would freeze over before anything should come between us to despoil our happiness.

“Are you all right, my love?” I asked, nuzzling against him. He grunted in the affirmative.

“I want to do something for you,” he said, brushing a hand over my chest. “It still feels strange to me how our roles here are so reversed from our day-to-day. I would never have imagined it to be so. I would not change it, either,” he added.

“What would you like to do?” I felt down between us, pressed tight as we were, and caressed his sex through the warm material of his nightshirt. He was not hard, yet, but he sighed against my neck all the same, pecking tiny kisses and nibbles to my ear. I began to feel my own blood rise; it did not take much, with him beside me.

“This,” said he, and slithered down under the covers, down until he reached his quarry. And then, with his mouth and his fingers, he took me, slowly, teasingly, to the edge and back several times over, like the roguish expert that he was. I confess that I have had many lovers, but none who possessed the natural instinct for pleasure-giving that my friend now realised. When he finally brought me to glory, taking every drop as I sprung taut against him, I smothered my cries into my pillow. The shocks seemed to last for minutes. As we subsided into calm, Holmes moved back up and lay down next to me once more, smiling shyly, his lips red, wet.

“Did you come?” I gasped, “Do you need anything?”

“I do not need it tonight,” he replied, “I wanted only to make you happy.”

I smiled at him. “And you did. Stay for a few minutes more, do not go just yet.”

And so we lay there in harmony for a while longer, until Holmes raised himself reluctantly from our bed and retreated down the stairs to his own room, for the remainder of the long night.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The following morning I left Baker Street early to carry out a number of small errands. On my return from the newsagent I had the thought of paying a quick visit to Barnes, to see how he had been coping in the intervening days since we had seen him last. Indeed, the enquiry from Scotland Yard’s quarter seemed still to be ongoing, for a police constable was speaking with him at his counter as I entered the shop and hovered upon the welcome mat.

“Doctor Watson!” cried Barnes, waving at me brightly, “how good to see you, sir! Come on in, I shall not keep you waiting long, I am just clearing up a few small details with this helpful constable.”

I nodded, and moved to one of the nearby rows of books to peruse while I waited. “Spencer, good morning,” I said to the constable, “I trust you are keeping well?”

“Most well, thank you, Doctor,” said the young man, “I will only be a minute more with Mr. Barnes, and then I shall be off.”

Their conversation appeared to be little more than general common sense advice on personal and property security, so I turned and buried my nose discreetly into a shelf of the latest issue hardback novels. These seemed miraculously to have been neatly piled and indexed, as were all of the surrounding shelves: Barnes had evidently been putting his time and nervous energy into fine productive use. I had just picked up a volume containing a garish romance, and was about to replace it upon the shelf when I heard PC Spencer take his leave.

“So, how are you, Barnes?” I asked, crossing over to the counter and smiling at my friend. “I do hope that this terrible crime has not been affecting you unduly. It must be the more difficult for you, living alone?”

“Oh no, it has not been so bad,” said he, pulling on his small hoop earring and blinking up at me. “I have been keeping busy, and taking my exercise, and it has proven very beneficial.”

“Exercise is always beneficial,” I replied. “I suppose that you stroll in the nearby parks?”

“Occasionally, Doctor, occasionally,” Barnes smiled, “but often as not I stay close to our neighbourhood, for it is better lit, and I bump into old friends along the way, so it is all very amenable to me. And some of the evenings we have been having lately have not been quite so blustery or as wet as the days.”

“I see,” said I. “Well, as long as you are well, that is the most important thing.”

“Yes, I am beginning to recover from the shock of it,” said Barnes, sitting down upon his stool and placing both hands out before him, to demonstrate the steadiness of his resolve. “I do hope never to see the like again, though, Doctor! Really, I do hope that. Might you be interested in purchasing that volume you are holding?”

I glanced down quickly at the romance novel. “Oh! I do beg your pardon, Barnes, I had quite forgotten that it was still in my hand. No. Thank you. I shall replace it.”

“Please do, Doctor,” said the cackling old man, “it would not do for you to be walking blithely away with my stock now, would it, ha!”

I bid Barnes farewell - he continued to wave to me through the window as I stood upon the street outside his shop - and returned home to Baker Street. As I entered our sitting-room I saw Holmes sitting by the window, sorting through the morning mail. He looked up and smiled.

“Watson, we have a deluge of post - all of a pleasing nature, I am happy to report. A couple of new cases, too, I think, although they must wait a few days until this Carter affair is concluded. I have had two telegrams, also - one from our friend Lestrade, the other from Gregson.”

“What did the telegrams say?” I asked, joining him at the table and touching the coffee pot to see if it might yet be hot enough for one more cup.

“Lestrade is asking to be pointed in the right direction, as always. Gregson confirms that he will be here with us later this afternoon, as his shift does not allow him to be available any earlier. I suppose that will have to do. In the meantime, of course, I plan on visiting Mr. Robinson. I will be going as myself; I really cannot abide dressing up in that appalling outfit for the third day in a row. Will you come?”

“Gladly,” said I, sipping at my coffee. “If the fellow turns foul, then it is best that there are two of us.”

Holmes smirked. “Well, I am more than able to take care of myself, Watson, but you know that I always appreciate your presence; it is invaluable to me.”

So it was, then, that an hour later the two of us were in a hansom and heading for Robinson’s home address as given to us unwittingly by Charlie Sun. It was not a very great distance away, and we arrived at the small property on Brickwell Road in good time. We rang the bell, and waited just a minute before the lock turned and the door opened a crack.

“Yes?” said a deep male voice from behind the chink.

“Good morning to you,” said Holmes, “do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Richard Robinson?”

“You might,” said the voice, “but who is it that wants him?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and I have a few questions that I would like to ask of you in relation to the recent murder of a Mr. Oswald Carter.”

There was a pause, then the door swung wide to reveal the body behind the voice. Richard Robinson was an imposing man, perhaps 6ft tall, heavily bearded, with a pair of intense, intelligent brown eyes, and a mouth now curved in either puzzlement or alarm.

“Sherlock Holmes, eh? I’d say it was an honour to meet you, if it wasn’t under such circumstances,” said he, “Why should you be coming to me with questions about Carter, then?”

“If you might allow us entry, then we shall be happy to inform you,” replied Holmes, with one foot already inside the door.

Robinson shrugged, and motioned us inside. We were shown into the front sitting-room, decorated and furnished in rich reds and dark greens; the overall atmosphere that of tired hedonism, for the colours served chiefly to plunge the room with its small windows into deeper gloom. Holmes was looking keenly about him the whole while, taking mental note of both the surrounds and our host - who was standing now in the doorway and staring at us.

“This is not a very convenient time, Mr. Holmes,” said Robinson, tapping his fingers against the frame. “What is it that you want of me?”

“We are investigating a murder,” Holmes responded with exaggerated calm, “and regrettably, murder is seldom convenient. We are accumulating information where we can. Please sit down, Mr. Robinson, and tell us how you came to know the late Mr. Oswald Carter.”

Robinson seated himself by the fireplace, and began his story.

“I didn’t know him particularly well. We had met a year ago, maybe less, at some inn or other, and discovered that we were both in the same line of work. Through that, we struck up a casual acquaintance. I liked him enough at first: he was a gregarious chum, always free with the bottle, and full of his long tales to entertain us. He’d been a tabloid hack, aye, you knew that? I’d never read his articles, but I’d heard that they were full of salacious gossip. Not my style, Mr. Holmes, not my style. Anyway, we had a bust-up a couple of weeks ago, and that was the last I saw of him.”

Holmes tilted his head and looked at Robinson.

“What _is_ your line of work, Mr. Robinson?”

“Why, I am a writer, same as Carter. I thought I made that clear enough?”

“And what was the nature of the argument that the two of you had?”

Robinson grimaced and curled his lip back against the gum. “’Twas a small matter. Just two hot-heads shouting the odds. Blame it on the whisky, Mr. Holmes, I can scarcely remember how it began now. It was strictly verbal, not physical, let me set that straight with you.”

“I was informed that it was because Carter had stolen something from you,” said Holmes, pressing a finger to his lips and regarding Robinson with an acute attention.

Robinson frowned, and swiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Aye, well, that’s true, then. He stole from me, whatever it was it surely makes no difference now.”

“I think that it might,” Holmes replied. “Please try to remember what it was that Carter took from you.”

“I cannot,” said our host, “I told you, we had been drinking. It was likely a few sovereigns, or a watch-chain, or something of that kind.” He sat back in his chair then. “It cannot make any difference,” he repeated, sullenly.

“I see. And that was the last you saw of Mr. Carter, as you say. Very well. Thank you for your time and your patience, Mr. Robinson. We may need to speak with you again. We shall see ourselves out - no need to rise - thank you. Good day to you.”

“My goodness, Holmes,” I said, when we were halfway down the street and looking for a hansom cab, “he behaved very oddly, don’t you think?”

“Yes, he did,” replied Holmes. “I am going to wire Lestrade. Robinson is concealing more than he lets on. We shall get to the bottom of it. Let us return to Baker Street via the telegraph office, Watson.”

We made it to Baker Street a little after midday. Mrs. Hudson met us in the hall, and informed us that Inspector Gregson had already arrived and was waiting for us in the sitting-room.

“He is quite fretful, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson,” the good lady advised, “he was agitated when he did not find either of you here, but I told him that you would not be long. Please go up now and see to him before he wears a hole in your carpet.”

I exchanged a sharp glance with Holmes. “I am not comfortable with this, Watson,” said he.

Together, we ascended the stairs slowly to our rooms.


	10. Chapter 10

When we entered the room, we found Inspector Gregson standing in the middle of it. He had indeed been pacing, for the carpet was rucked and shunted. He looked up at us, and his expression was solemn. Holmes stepped forward calmly, still I could discern the strain he was doing his best to conceal.

“Gregson,” said my friend, quietly. “What news do you have?”

Gregson ran a hand through his hair, sat down upon the sofa, then sprang up again.

“I do not know how to tell you this,” said he, “but I have uncovered part of the mystery behind your anonymous note.”

“Who is it, then?” I demanded, immediately roused and furious. Holmes placed a hand upon my arm.

“Sit down, please, gentlemen,” said Gregson, “I am finding it awkward with the pair of you standing to attention, so.”

We sat, and Gregson perched himself again upon the sofa, now managing to remain without jumping as though stung.

“When first you showed me that note, Doctor,” said the Inspector, “you may have observed that I examined it with some curiosity. Well, that was because I recognised the typeface, with its peculiarity of the ‘O’ and the ‘E’. Yes, Mr. Holmes, do not look at me so oddly - I can observe as well as you, given the occasion. Yet I could not recall where I had seen such a type before. As you can imagine, a great deal of machine-written correspondence passes in front of me each day, and most of that has variants of the sort displayed in that note. But then, Mr. Holmes, I remembered.”

“What did you remember?” asked Holmes, his eyes narrowed, set as flint.

Gregson hesitated for one brief moment to fidget with his hat. “Mr. Holmes, that typeface is from the communal typewriter here in the office at Scotland Yard.”

Holmes hissed an intake of breath, and rose from his chair.

“Gregson, are you absolutely certain of this fact?”

Gregson nodded. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I am certain. I even made so sure as to sit myself down in front of the machine and to type a few lines of nonsense, and the oddities are the same. Here is my sheet, gentlemen.”

Gregson produced his own paper for comparison. Holmes snatched it from him, and compared it against the two poisonous notes we had received. He gestured in despair, and passed them across to me.

“They are indeed identical,” said he. “We received a second note, Gregson, rather more evil than the first. I would rather you did not see it unless you insist. I suppose we are lost, then?”

“Mr. Holmes, I do not know,” Gregson replied. “The office is empty at various times of the day, and it would be a simple enough matter for anyone to use the typewriter without being observed. Could you tell me the exact time, if you can, when both notes were delivered?”

“The first was a little after 9pm. The second was a short while after 5pm the next day,” I said. “Should that have any bearing?”

“Yes,” replied the Inspector rather shortly, “it likely has. If you gentlemen would not object, I should like to settle myself in your downstairs hall this evening, and see if a third note might be forthcoming. If it is, then I shall be on the alert and we will know our man’s identity, at the least. That is, if you favour such a course of action? I could alternatively set up watch outside from a vantage point, but concealment might be an issue, for there are no vacant properties close by currently.”

“If you should catch the culprit red-handed then what is the guarantee that he will not be alarmed into squealing the whole thing out to his superiors?” asked Holmes, doubtfully.

“I have my suspicions as to who it might be from the information supplied by Doctor Watson. I will say nothing now, but if it proves to be so, then let us just say that I have my own ammunition, Mr. Holmes.”

“Very well, then,” replied Holmes. “We are counting upon your discretion, Gregson.”

“Of course,” said the Inspector. “I shall leave you now, then, but will return before 5 o’clock. Please try not to worry in the interim. Good afternoon to you both.”

Gregson departed, and Holmes and I turned to look at each other. I felt sick to the bottom of my stomach at the realisation that the source of our harassment was Scotland Yard itself.

“Who do you think it could be, Holmes?” I whispered.

Holmes flung his hands up. “Which of the Inspectors with whom we are familiar would be likely to call upon us without giving notice? The list is not so very long. Lestrade, of course. Then there is Inspector Bradstreet, or Athelney Jones, perhaps. If it is Lestrade, well, then…” and he broke off into silence.

“What do you think Gregson meant, by saying that he had his own ammunition?” I was feeling utterly dazed now.

“He evidently knows a detail or two about our nemesis which they would not appreciate being revealed to a wider public,” replied my friend. “Please, no more questions, my boy. I need to think.”

And he curled himself up into his chair by the fire: his black clay pipe stuffed with the foulest of shag, his chin resting upon his drawn-up knees, in the deepest of contemplations.

For my part, I could not bear the thought of mulling upon this dreadful affair for the remainder of the afternoon, and so I set my mind upon the details of the Carter murder, attempting as best I might to make some order out of them. So many strands and dead ends; it seemed quite unfathomable. The dead body in the rear alcove of the bookstore, with carpet slippers upon its feet; the tuft plucked from the nail inside that recess; Holmes’s enigmatic references to Carter’s shelving, and his bare floorboards; Carter’s uncanny knack for making enemies of his friends. Then there were the two novels which appeared to carry little useful data; the crowd at ‘The Merry Chestnut’, and the black-bearded Mr. Robinson. All of these facts swirled around inside my head and refused to form a cohesive whole.

“Just one question, Holmes, if I may, regarding Carter?”

He nodded sharply, so I continued.

“Why should his shelving be of any significance?”

Holmes hummed. “I will tell you this. Something that should have been there upon it, was in fact, not. Think about it, Watson. It might point you in the direction where I am also headed.”

I thought, but still nothing made sense to me. I gave up, and picked up the book which I was currently reading, to while away the few remaining hours before Gregson returned to take up his evening vigil.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inspector Gregson was true to his word and returned to Baker Street at 4.45pm. He spoke with us briefly before he commenced his watch, and did his best to allay our anxieties.

“It might take a few hours before anything happens, if it does at all, gentlemen,” he advised. Gregson cut an almost comic figure now, muffled as he was in a great coat, gloves and many scarves, in anticipation of our hallway’s piercing cold. Mrs. Hudson was under instructions to bring him hot soup and coffee at regular intervals. We were hoping that it would not take all night, all the same. Once the Inspector was safely settled upon a chair placed close to the main door, and partaking of his first warm cup of the evening, Holmes and I jittered around our sitting-room. That is, in fact, to say: I jittered. Holmes merely sat and meditated, as was his wont in such times of trial.

“I don’t know how you are able to remain so calm, Holmes,” said I, shuffling papers, tidying out my desk, and clearing our breakfast table of its residue of stray test tubes.

“I see no benefit in flapping around as a mad goose,” he replied. “I would rather smoke and think. Do try not to make too much noise, my dear fellow, for we must be able to hear if Gregson makes his move.”

“I cannot stand it,” said I, “my nerves are shot.”

“So said the mad goose,” replied Holmes, dryly. “Sit and smoke a pipe with me, and be patient. It might be that there is no third message tonight, so what is the point of worrying so?”

For two hours we waited, with ears strained towards the front door, but with no result. We heard Mrs. Hudson fussing to and fro with refreshments for the chilled Inspector Gregson. We heard him pace the hall, and stamp his feet to invigorate his circulation. Still, we did not hear the rattle of the letterbox. As the clock ticked towards the next half-hour, we were beginning to give up hope. And then.

From downstairs we heard a sudden flurry, a tumult; the door being flung open. As we dashed to the door of our sitting-room, to open it and peer down the staircase, we heard Gregson’s fast footfall upon the street, a curse, a dragging by the scruff back inside 221B.

“There now,” we heard him say, “I’ve got you, you scoundrel. How dare you! Here we are, and what do you have to say for yourself?”

A high-pitched, defensive whining, then, from the captive.

“I didn’t do anything!” cried the disembodied voice. “It was all a lark, didn’t mean anything by it. Let me go, Gregson, damn you.”

Holmes was on his way down the stairs then, and I followed close behind. We turned at the bottom into the hall, and saw Gregson standing there, his hands upon the collar of our man.

“PC Spencer,” said Holmes, flatly. “How good of you to drop by.”

The constable stared at us both, wild-eyed. He struggled, briefly, to no avail, and gave up. His eyes flashed defiance.

“You should be in prison, the pair of you,” he spat. “I heard you. I heard you, carrying on in your room like you had nothing to be ashamed of, with such filthy acts. Men like you sicken me.”

“And men like _you_ sicken _me_ , Spencer,” said Gregson, tightening his hold. “What you have done here is a crime in itself. It is harassment. And you, a police constable. What would you say, then, if you knew that I had certain information on your past deeds within the constabulary? Accepting bribes, eh? That’s nothing to be proud of. Police corruption is a sorry affair. I have written statements here from those who paid you off; they were very willing to provide me with the information, believe me. Bribes going back four years, Spencer! If I released this information it would be the end of your career, son. Do you want me to do that?”

“No!” cried the constable. “No, I would not want that! It would kill my mother! How did you find any of that out, Gregson? You would not dare!”

“I would dare,” said the Inspector, solemnly. “Just you try me. I’ll show you how much I dare. If you cast a shadow against the reputation of either of these fine, loyal, upstanding gentlemen, then I will dare. You would ruin yourself in the process. Would it be worth it?”

“Damn you,” the young constable shouted, “damn you. I wouldn’t have, anyway. I just wanted to make them sweat. Damn you. Let me go, now.”

“Spencer, this is your warning,” said Gregson. “Go then, and I will speak with you again tomorrow morning.”

He released him then, and the startled constable made off down the road at a fair lick, having apparently abandoning his rounds for the evening. Gregson turned to us with a half-smile.

“I apologise for the tongue on that rascal, gentlemen,” said he. “I think he may find himself relocated to a different borough before the month is out, in any case. If I had my own way then his career would be over, but we have to bargain as best we can when it is for the greater good.”

“Thank you, Gregson,” said Holmes, sounding very humbled and sincere. “We really do appreciate all that you have done for us. So I suppose it was on his evening beat, then, that Spencer would routinely test the front door security of properties along his route? Yes, I thought as much. Baker Street was on his route. He found our door unlocked, and entered to see that all was well. He heard a noise from upstairs, I am guessing, and upon further investigation, overheard more than he had bargained for, and reached his conclusions. Hum. I suppose we are fortunate that he did not report us straightaway.”

“Fortunate indeed,” replied the Inspector. He bent down, then, and picked up an envelope from the mat. “Here is the third note, I believe, gentlemen.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking it. “Another fine piece of poison, no doubt. Will you dine with us this evening, Gregson? I am sure Mrs. Hudson will have food enough for three, if you would care to join our table.”

“I tell you, Doctor, that is quite the best offer I have had all day,” said the Inspector, rubbing his hands together briskly, and blowing into them. “I am frozen, and a hot meal would warm me up very nicely. Would that be all right with yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

“That is more than all right, Gregson,” smiled my friend. “I shall speak with our landlady. Go on up ahead of me now, the two of you, and I will be but a moment.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Holmes, I declare, if Mrs. Hudson was not aware of us before, then by heaven she surely must be now.”

I was sprawled on my side across my friend’s bed, as he sat up amongst his pillows, his black head tousled from sleep. It was 8 o’clock the following morning; I had only just joined Holmes, and here we were, in nightshirts and dressing gowns, enjoying a few minutes of serenity before the first forward roll of the day.

“I think you are right,” he replied, gently stroking my hair. “The charming diatribe hurled at us by PC Spencer was not so ambiguous as it might be misunderstood. I am quite certain that Mrs. Hudson was standing close by having been alerted by the furore, and that she heard all that was said there. I am more sure, however, that her discretion is absolute and she will never refer to it.”

“I am a little anxious still until we receive that follow-up wire from Gregson,” I said. “I would dearly love to know the content of his interview with Spencer.”

“The lad is too terrified of disappointing his dear old mother,” said Holmes. “If a breath of this gets out then Gregson will know from where it originated, and Spencer will lose his career. He is not so foolish as to risk everything for spite. I must say that it is a relief to glimpse a hint of blue sky again after these days of black cloud. And to think that we have Gregson to thank! I am almost loath to admit that it appears I may have underestimated him all these years.”

“Hopefully we will also hear back from Lestrade this morning regarding Robinson,” I added, reaching up to take my friend’s hand. “We might even end the day with our bird caught in its cage, do you think, Holmes?”

“One step at a time, my dear fellow, one step,” said Holmes, chuckling. “We have no solid proof of this Robinson being involved. I am just following a hunch. That being said, I do hope that Lestrade plays our game and does not pooh-pooh the advice I have given him.”

“He would be foolish if he did so, given your success rate,” I said.

An hour later, and the game began. The reply telegram from Lestrade arrived in the form of the Inspector himself, who sat upon our sofa and drank two cups of tea with four shortbread biscuits, as he and my friend discussed the details of the Carter affair and their respective progress made to date. Lestrade confessed to Holmes that he had come up against a brick wall; Holmes informed Lestrade that he was not at all surprised at this.

“I believe it is imperative that we follow up with Robinson,” said Holmes. “If we are able to carry out an examination of the property then all the better, although I appreciate that is a little irregular.”

Lestrade brushed the biscuit crumbs from his waistcoat and leaned back, legs crossed, his fingers drumming distractedly upon the arm of the sofa.

“That is indeed highly irregular, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “All the same, I should like to accompany you there and speak with the gentleman myself. My Inspector’s intuition will be invaluable there, I assure you. If he is a guilty man, then I will spot it! Oh yes, Mr. Holmes, I will spot it.”

“I am sure that you will,” replied Holmes, glancing across to me with an upwards quirk of his mouth. “Well, Lestrade, if you have quite finished stuffing yourself with Mrs. Hudson’s shortbread, shall we be off? Let us waste no more time here, as there is much to be done.”

The three of us made haste to the Brickwell Road, and assembled in an orderly line at Richard Robinson’s front door.

“Hello, what have we here?” said Holmes, “The door is slightly ajar.” He tapped it further open with a finger, and stepped inside the hall. We followed him in, listening intently for any sound, but there was none.

“Hello? Anyone at home?” Lestrade called out. There was no reply. “This is of concern to me, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “I think we had best take a look around. Who knows what might have happened to the gentleman?”

As Lestrade advanced cautiously down the hall, Holmes gripped hold of my arm and dragged me into the sitting-room.

“Watson!” he hissed, “This is the most ideal situation. I do not know what might have befallen our friend Robinson, but we have this room at our entire disposal now, and I have a theory I wish to test.”

“What is your theory?” I asked, looking around in curiosity, for nothing appeared to have been moved or changed within the room since our first visit.

“Remember how Robinson hovered at the doorway, when we were here last. Even when I encouraged him to take a seat, did you observe how his glance would keep flickering over towards that wall, there? There is nothing of interest in that corner which should have held his attention so. I believe it to have been an attention of the sub-conscious. Let us see what we might find there.”

Holmes turned to the corner of the room by the door, and ran his hands over the wood panelling there. He knelt and picked up a corner of the rug to examine the floor boarding. He plucked at the skirting boards, and there he found his prize. One small panel of the skirting was loose and quite evidently removed and replaced with some regularity, for there was a scuffing in the dust upon the surrounding floorboards. Holmes prised the panel free, and peered into the cavity.

“The brick which was originally cemented into place here has been removed,” said he, “it has left a very nice little hiding place.”

He inserted his hand into the recess and felt around. With a soft cry of triumph, his fingers appeared to grasp hold of an object, for he withdrew, and I saw that he was holding a thick scroll of paper within his hand.

“Whatever is that, Holmes?” I asked, bewildered. It looked quite unimportant to me.

Holmes flattened the scroll between his hands, and examined the cover. He flicked quickly through the pages, pausing here and there to read certain passages, uttering little sounds of satisfaction. He closed it and displayed it for me to see.

“It is a manuscript,” he said. “Not just any manuscript, mark my words. It is a work which holds the key to this case. Ah! Watson, the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle are slotting into place now.”

Lestrade now joined us in the sitting-room. He pointed a finger above us, towards the first floor.

“I have found our Mr. Robinson,” said he. “He was asleep, but I have woken him. He tells me that he was downstairs earlier to leave the front door unlocked for his cleaning woman who visits him on this day of the week. By the looks of things she doesn’t do a very good job, eh! The heavy winds we have been having this morning must have blown it off the latch. Tut, tut, I advised him that he should be more careful in future. He is dressing now, and will be with us shortly. Hello, now, what do you have there, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have evidence, Lestrade,” replied Holmes, now re-examining the manuscript with intent. “I would very much like to interview our sleepy friend when he emerges, if you have no objection?”

“Go ahead, Mr. Holmes, please, go ahead.” The Inspector sat himself down in an armchair and smiled up at the both of us. The sitting-room seemed gloomier than ever now, for the heavy black clouds outside were letting through very little natural light. Holmes lit several lamps, and placed them upon the side tables. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands behind his back, his head tilted towards the faint sounds of movement from upstairs.

“I do hope that Robinson is not manufacturing an escape rope for himself out of old bedsheets,” my friend commented dryly. “How long does it take for a man to pull on a shirt and trousers?”

“Hush,” said I, “I believe he is on his way now.”

We heard heavy footsteps upon the stair, and Robinson appeared inside the door frame of the sitting-room. He looked around at the three of us, seemingly a little put out by the disturbance. Then he caught sight of the manuscript upon the table, and his mouth worked silently in agitation. He swung his head as though considering whether to make a dash for it, but decided against it. He stepped into the room with firm resolve, and faced us solemnly.

“This is quite the party,” said he, standing at the fireplace and fumbling with a cigarette and match. He inhaled a lungful of smoke, and held it for a great many seconds. “I see you have my manuscript there, Mr. Holmes. Now might I ask you, in God’s name how did you find that without turning the entire room over?”

“The deduction was a simple one,” replied my friend, “for I pay close attention to detail. If I might ask a favour from you in turn now, Mr. Robinson? We would be very much interested in learning how you came to murder Mr. Oswald Carter in his home the last week. Please spare us no detail, for we are eager to hear all of the facts.”

Robinson sank down into a chair, then, his face pale, his eyes all but bulging out of their sockets. He swiped a hand down the side of his neck and tugged at his collar, as though all the air had been sucked from the room and there was none left to breathe. We waited patiently for the large man to compose himself.

“I’ll be damned,” muttered Robinson, “I never thought it’d come to this so soon. How the devil?”

“Please tell us your version of events,” said Holmes, softly. “It will be better for you in the long run if you co-operate.”

Robinson sighed, plucked a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose with a loud honk, then settled back to begin his story.

“Right enough, then. It truly began shortly after I first met Carter, all that time ago. But I only found out what he had done to me two weeks ago! When I admitted that he had stolen from me, well, that was true. He had stolen from me here, gentlemen.” Robinson paused then to tap at his head with his forefinger. “He stole my words! My thoughts! I had written a novel, you see. My first. For I usually write newspaper articles and essays for journals. But I had been thinking about my novel for years, and then I happened to find myself with the time to put pen to paper and write it. And I did write it -- it is the manuscript that sits on the table there. And I was so proud of it. I wanted to show it to somebody. Carter was a writer; I gave it to him to read, for his opinion. Showing off, I suppose. Anyway, he read it within the week, and returned it to me. He said it wasn’t a bad yarn, but it needed a lot of work, it wasn’t ready to show to anyone else yet. That deflated me a bit. I looked over it again and thought maybe he was right. I put it away, then, for I became busy with my other work, and my old mother fell ill and needed my care, and well… you know how it is, I am sure.

“Months passed, and I was still a busy man. I heard that my friend Carter had won a prize for his latest novel. I was happy enough for him, but I hadn’t the time to buy a copy of it to read. Not until recently, when I was searching through the junk in Barnes’ bookshop and saw it there, on one of the shelves. Aha, I thought, now I have the time to read it, so I shall buy it, and then tell my mate what I thought of it. I read it, and my heart turned to water. For that wretch had taken my ideas, my characters, my story, and twisted it all around and called it his own. Not word for word, but I knew my own story. I marched around and had it out with him. He denied it, like he would, but I knew his bluster. I did not know what to do. Who would believe me? I had shown my manuscript to none other, I had no proof that it had been written before Carter’s publication. And now he was reaping in the spoils, and the prizes, for something that was not his!”

Robinson punched his fist down upon a small table beside him. He looked around at us, eyes blazing in fury to make sure that we understood his plight, then he continued:

“So I swore revenge. Though it stuck in my craw to do it, I pretended to Carter that I had forgiven him; that we should spend an evening with a couple of bottles of whisky, and fix our breach. So it was that night, the night of his death, and I was around at his home drinking with him. The whisky helped, I suppose, for it made me talkative, and him plain drunk. I made a joke of it, asked him if he had told anyone that we had settled our score and were drinking tonight -- and he said No, he had not seen anyone that day to mention it. I kept refilling his glass; he did not protest so very much. He began feeling unwell when we were onto our second bottle. He went through to the bathroom to throw some of it back up, I supposed, and I took my chance. I grabbed the nearest heavy thing to hand -- oh, and that was appropriate, I thought, for it was his bloody Pitfield award statue, sitting right there on his shelf -- and I crept into the bathroom behind him, where he was hunched over the sink.

“I took a mighty swing, and then I brought that heavy great statue down upon his head. One strike, that was all it took. It caved his brain in, well enough. He fell down right there, on the tile. I heaved him into the bath tub, because of the blood. He was dead already. I had to get rid of the evidence. I mopped up the blood and brains from the floor and the wall tiles. I took off my jacket, which was spattered, and turned it inside out. I wrapped the statue inside, and went outside to the bins a few doors down the road. I stuffed both into the bottom of one bin, and covered up over the top of it with more rubbish, for I knew that it should be collected early the next morning and no-one should be any the wiser of it.

“I went back to Carter’s sitting room, and pulled the rug up from the floor, and dragged it through to the bathroom. I pulled his body out of the tub and onto the rug, and rolled him up in it, trussed it tight. It was a strange, thick-pile rug, so I thought the blood shouldn’t stain through all that quickly. I cleaned up the tub, then hoisted the body over my shoulder, and made it out of the house, as quiet as I could. It was late, there was nobody around, the streets were deserted. I made my way until I found myself in the Glenworth Street alley. I walked along halfway, thinking that this was as good a place as any to drop off my load. I unrolled the rug, and threw off the dead body into one of the alcoves. The damned rug got caught on a nail or something, I had to tug to free it. Then I rolled it up again, hauled it back onto my shoulder -- a lot lighter now! -- and went on my way, back to my place. It was in the back of my mind that I should hide my manuscript away somewhere safe, for I could not bear to destroy it, it being my first novel, and all of the work that had gone into it. I hid it in my nook behind the skirting boards, not thinking anyone should find it.

“And that is my honest story, gentlemen. Now what will you have done with me?”

“You will be accompanying me to Scotland Yard, Mr. Robinson,” said Inspector Lestrade, who had been leaning forward and listening intently the whole time, his beady little eyes popping at each fresh detail.

“One moment, I have a question,” said Holmes. “What did you do with the rug, Mr. Robinson?”

Robinson shrugged. “On my way home I dumped it into a large trash pile on a side street, along with a heap of other dirty, ragged blankets and shawls, where it shouldn’t be noticed so much by itself, and no-one would be likely to swipe it. I couldn’t think of what else to do with it at that moment.”

“I see, thank you,” said Holmes, quietly. He looked at Lestrade. “I have no other questions, Inspector.”

“Thank you very much indeed for all that you have done to help us, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, rising to his feet and reaching for his hat. “A most fascinating story, and a very satisfactory outcome! Now, Mr. Robinson, if you are ready, we had better be on our way.”

Robinson stood, and gathered up his coat, and a few small belongings which he stuffed into his pockets. I tucked away my notebook in which I had been feverishly scribbling for the past 10 minutes, and the four of us took our leave of the small house on the Brickwell Road.


	12. Chapter 12

Upon our return to Baker Street we found the telegram from Inspector Gregson awaiting us as promised. Holmes ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents. He handed it across to me with a small smile.

“All is well, Watson,” said he. “Gregson advises that young Spencer is sorely afraid of the threat to his career and his reputation, and he has accepted the transfer to a different borough. Hopefully he may learn from his mistakes and become a better man for it. I do wonder, though.”

I read it through, then screwed it into a ball and tossed it into the fire. “Let us talk no more about it, then,” I said, “for it is in the past, and it has tried us enough. I still have questions about the Carter affair, Holmes, if you would be willing to answer them?”

He nodded and motioned that I continue, so I sat down and consulted my notebook.

“Had you already deduced that it was the award statue which Robinson used as the weapon against Carter?”

Holmes huffed. “Well yes, Watson, of course. When I observed Carter’s shelving and found no trace of his treasured prize -- why surely he would have had it prominently displayed, yes? -- and then detected imprints in the dust upon the shelf, where a large object had sat for some considerable time but had recently been removed, then I came to my somewhat elementary conclusion.”

“And it was a tuft from the _rug_ , rather than from a red wig, that was caught upon the nail in that alcove, Holmes!”

“It must have been a very peculiarly exotic woven rug, Watson, but yes. It is almost a shame that Robinson discarded it so, for I should like to have examined it. It is surely burned or otherwise removed by now, although we could retrace his steps home to be sure of it.”

I nodded. “And this is what puzzles me the most, Holmes. Why did Robinson not simply leave the body where it was in the bathroom? Rolling it inside the rug and braving the London streets with it over his shoulder seems a very reckless thing for him to do.”

“Remember that by this point Robinson did not trust Carter,” my friend replied. “He was paranoid that Carter had indeed told one or more of his pals that they were meeting that evening. If the body had been abandoned in the bathroom, the finger would have immediately been pointed at Robinson as the guilty party. Whereas if it was discovered elsewhere, well, then, police logic would likely conclude that Carter had taken a late evening stroll after their sojourn, and met his fate at the hands of a couple of roughs. Robinson’s great error was to overlook the fact that his victim was wearing carpet slippers when he died.”

“If it had not been for the slippers then it is likely that Robinson would have gotten away with his crime,” I mused.

“I think not, Watson, for I would have worked the trail back to him anyhow. Still! Our friend now looks forward to many years behind bars, and we find ourselves now able to follow other pursuits at last.”

“You are never anything less than perspicacious, my dear fellow, and I congratulate you,” I smiled. “Lunch, then,” I added, wagging a finger, “and you must eat. Two shortbread biscuits cannot and will not suffice as your intake for one day, Holmes. Let us call down to Mrs. Hudson for a large plate of sandwiches and a pot of hot coffee.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was while we were sitting by the fire late that evening, each with a glass of whisky and soda, and smoking cigars from a particularly fine selection box which had been gifted to us a month earlier by a happy client, that Holmes looked across at me with something akin to mischief in his eyes. I was half asleep and daydreaming and so paid little attention at first to his glances, but they gradually became too insistent to resist.

“What is it?” I asked him lazily, smiling as I sipped from my tumbler. “You have such a look about you, my dear fellow.”

Holmes drained his whisky and stood up. He turned and retrieved a pair of items from behind the cushion of his armchair. He faced me again, and dangled the objects in front of me. I looked at them, uncomprehending.

“Your dressing gown cord, and mine,” I said, puzzled. “What are you doing with them?”

He flung them into my lap.

“The question is rather more what _you_ will be doing with them, Watson,” said he. He unbuttoned his shirt top, and took a step sideways, towards the door.

I held the cords in my hands, and frowned. I thought hard. They looked new and quite obviously did not need replacing as yet. I shook my head at Holmes. “I do not follow you,” I said.

Holmes rolled his eyes. He undid another button. “Ropes,” he said. He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Oh, my goodness.” I looked down at the cords, suddenly feeling very wide awake. I scrambled to my feet.

“Bedroom. Now.” I commanded, employing my most authoritative military tone. Holmes visibly quivered.

“Oh my, yes,” he said, and made for the door. I caught him by the arm.

“Yes, what?” I challenged.

Holmes blinked. “Yes… sir?”

I grabbed the back of his head and brought his mouth to mine, to kiss it, own it. “That’s better,” said I. He made for the stairs up to my room, then, and I was at his heels.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I ordered him to strip, and he obeyed. Our game had begun instinctively, without need for words or instruction; somehow we knew our individual roles and how they should be played. I was entirely unfamiliar with the form and yet was finding myself heady with the desire and power of it. Holmes was much affected also, as he stood before me: flushed, obedient, waiting. I ached to touch him, but knew that I should not, just yet. He had to earn his pleasure. He had to give me mine.

“Lie down upon the bed, on your back,” I said, flatly. “That’s right.”

I climbed on top of him, fully dressed as I still was, and balanced myself above his hips. I trailed the cords over his stomach, snaking them around his nipples, his shoulders, armpits, back down to his navel. He held in his breath, did not move while I did this; he could not take his eyes from me. I tickled his sides with the tassels, then; he jerked, tried to wriggle away, but he was caught fast beneath me.

“Stay still,” I instructed, enjoying myself immensely now. I took one of the cords and lashed his right wrist to one side of the metal bedhead. With the other cord, I secured his left wrist to the adjacent side. I leered at him, helpless and vulnerable, both arms now raised and tied above his head.

“Are you going to undress?” he whispered, eyes still fast upon me.

“Be quiet,” I hissed. “Do not speak unless I permit it. I am in charge, or did you forget that?”

Holmes shook his head, silently. His erection was pushing insistently against me; I ignored it. I lowered my head, and fastened my teeth around his left nipple. I tugged at it, gently; he cried out softly. I laved it with my tongue, gnawed it, teased it, until it became a hard nub. I turned my attentions to his other nipple, bestowing upon it the same treatment. He was holding back his moans; trying not to thrust upwards, or move, even, lest it displease me. I licked a wet trail up his chest, his throat, across his jawbone, my tongue ending its journey to flicker around his mouth. He opened it to accept my kiss, but I tormented him, would not allow him it. He groaned, finally.

“Damn it, John, you’re killing me. Please.”

“One more word,” I whispered, “and I will be using my belt on your backside.”

His eyes popped wide open, his jaw slackened. He searched my face to assess if I was jesting or in earnest. He opted for the latter. I could almost hear his brain working furiously to decide whether it liked the idea or not.

“Stop thinking,” I told him. “I will be doing as I please, anyhow.”

I eased off him and stood aside from the bed. I removed my smoking jacket, and slowly unbuttoned my shirt, peeling it from me and tossing it to the floor. I did the same for my undershirt. I undid the top button of my trousers, then hesitated to look across at Holmes. He was watching me intently, his wrists straining against his bonds. How wicked I could be, for I undid no further buttons, but moved to straddle him again; he all but groaned with frustration. I ground into him, and his legs involuntarily moved up around me. He froze, in case that was not what I wanted, but I was barely managing to keep my control and it was very much what I wanted. I felt painfully constrained within my clothing, and felt the desperate urge to be rid of it for comfort’s sake. I undid my remaining buttons there, then pulled back briefly to shuck off my trousers and underwear.

I was upon him again, and leaned in to whisper filthy endearments into his ear. He wailed, and attempted to anchor me down with his legs. He did not dare speak, but did all within his considerable powers to tip me over the brink. As his body undulated beneath me, I pressed my lips to his, finally, and we kissed. A deep, slow, impassioned kiss, exploring each other’s mouths and tongues with such an intensity, almost as though for the first time once again. I licked him all over; I nipped his flesh with my teeth, and ran my fingernails down his sides until he was unashamedly groaning. _Please_ , he mouthed, still not saying the word aloud. Obedient. I loved him for that.

I leaned in to his ear once more. “You can speak,” I told him.

He looked up into my eyes, seemed to consider, unsure of the words he should choose now that he had his freedom.

“I never speak, John, it is a shocking habit,” he whispered, finally, and pulled me back down into him - where I confess I was exceedingly happy to be.

\- END -


End file.
